


turn me inside out

by sunkencity



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Semblances (RWBY), Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Modeling, No Faunus, Past Abuse, Photography, Slow Burn, Weiss Schnee Needs a Hug, but no graphic depictions or descriptions, everyone makes an appearance eventually - Freeform, fields of feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2019-11-05 17:26:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17923187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkencity/pseuds/sunkencity
Summary: "I don't date my photographers," Blake says, almost reflexively.Yang just looks at her, searching, brows slowly drawing together with uncertainty.  "Is that really all I am to you?"No, not even a little.  Whatever Yang is to her, or could be to her, Blake knows it's transcendent.  And that's terrifying.(Photographer/Model AU where Yang eventually makes good jokes, Blake eventually goes high fashion, Weiss eventually breaks down, and Ruby eventually makes an appearance)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> while there will be no graphic descriptions of Blake's past abuse, aspects of it will be referenced. i'm trying to focus on her healing, but it does come up in the first scene she's in, so you can see early on how it will be written about. please let me know if this needs additional tags/warnings. also, slow burn angst with a Happy Ending i swear

Yang arrives forty-seven minutes late, smelling like a candy factory caught fire and was extinguished with cheap vodka, and looking like she just stepped off the pages of _Biker Babes_ magazine.  “We hit traffic,” she says by way of apology, slumping into the booth.  “I threw my stuff in the apartment and then came right here.”

Across the table, Weiss sets down her scroll.  She’s had plenty of time to catch up on work emails, and anything left isn’t too pressing.  She sips her second cup of coffee and drawls, “You smell the way techno music sounds.  I hope the tour was better than you look?”

“Kids, _ugh_.” Yang makes this _noise_ – part-groan; part-laugh – as she pulls off her leather coat, unwraps the scarf from her neck.  She piles them up on the seat beside her, settling in.  “I’m getting too old for this.”

“Because you’re so ancient at twenty-three.” Weiss fights a smile as Yang dramatically collapses, hands falling near her feet with her cheek against the table.  “You’re acting like a grandmother, Yang.”

“They made me feel like a grandma.”  There’s too much lightness, too much clear fondness in her voice to really sound like whining.  “Pouring candy-flavored shots before noon.  Up until dawn every night.  I still can’t hear right out of my one ear because of the trumpet.”

“So, you had fun,” Weiss concludes, and a slow smile stretches across Yang’s face.

“Oh, it was a _blast_.”

The waitress comes over, placing a coffee carafe and a mug in front of Yang, and she sits up with her palms pressed together, thanking the waitress for being such an angel.  Chuckling, the waitress sets down two menus and looks to Weiss.  “Another minute?”

“Please,” Weiss politely smiles.

She heads off, and Yang cracks open her menu with an expectant, “You’re paying, right?”

Weiss rolls her eyes.  “I suppose.  I did ask you, after all.”

“Sweet.”

Weiss already knows what she’ll order – she likes routine, likes having certain things to rely on – so she watches Yang eat the menu up with her eyes like she has every intention of just ordering one of everything.  Shadows of half-moons cut under her eyes, tendrils of hair fall messily from her bun.  There’s a hint of fresh ink peeking out from under the collar of her t-shirt; a recent addition to the ever-expanding collection of tattoos on her right bicep, all but swallowing her shoulder now.

For all that Yang might feign annoyance, Weiss knows she loves her job.  Loves the traveling involved, the escape of it.  She’s been following some up-and-coming new band – _Team Funky_ , Weiss sneers internally – for the past few weeks, capturing candid shots and moments for videos and promotional materials.  And Weiss knows that in another week or two, Yang will get the itch to head out again.

Always on the move.  Always on to the next thing.

So, it’s with a fair amount of caution that Weiss asks, “Do you have your next job lined up?”

“It’ll probably take me a week or so to scrub through the rest of the footage and shoots,” Yang absently answers, turning the page of her menu.  “Another couple days to piece it together.  I’m thinking I might take a hiatus after that.”

Weiss’ ears perk up.  “Hiatus.”

Yang’s face scrunches.  “Well, not _hiatus_ , but… I really should clean my apartment; my plants all died again.  And Ruby’s got winter break coming up, so it would be cool to see her.  I don’t know, maybe like a month or two?”  She shrugs, closing her menu and pouring herself some coffee.  “Maybe just until the new year.  Might try to get some local jobs in the meantime.”

Carefully, Weiss sets her cup down.  Laces her fingers together and leans on the table.  “What if…” She begins, trying to think of how best to phrase it.  Yang angles closer as she mixes in sugar, glancing towards her from the corners of her eyes.  Weiss licks her lips.  “What if I have a job for you?”

Yang just stares at her for a moment, and then a smirk slowly, seductively curls at the edge of her lips.  “Weiss Schnee, we’ve been through this.  No matter how much you beg, I refuse to do a nude photoshoot of you.”

“Oh my-” This is why Weiss didn’t want to ask.  “I didn’t say _proposition_ this time, Yang.  There was no part of my statement which implied nudity.”

She only shrugs, careless and easy.  “Still.”  And then has the audacity to wink.

“Forget it,” Weiss huffs.

Chuckling, Yang sips her coffee.  “What’s the job?”

The waitress comes back to take their orders, so Weiss gets to pretend like she wasn’t about to immediately cave and beg Yang for help.  They order – eggs Benedict for Weiss and some abomination called _Weenies in Bikinis_ for Yang – and then sit in silence for a minute.  Yang staring her down over the rim of her mug, expectant, and Weiss caves with all the grace and dignity she can muster.

“It’s been a difficult process, but I’ve finally managed to salvage what could be saved of Schnee Designs,” she states.  “Obviously, the brand cannot continue under that name.”

“Obviously,” Yang echoes.

Weiss nods, curt.  “The rebrand will launch with a new line, and we’re on schedule to debut at Vale Fashion Week in the spring.”

“So, you want me to model for you,” Yang grins.  She tucks one hand under her chin, batting her lashes.  “You want my beautiful face on your runway?”

And, honestly, Weiss should have expected this.  “I’d like you to shoot it, you dunce.”

“Sure.”

Weiss just blinks at her.  “Really?”

“Yeah,” Yang shrugs, sipping her coffee.  “Runway shows are, what, like an hour?  I can give you an hour in the spring, Weiss.  Maybe even two hours, if you play your cards right.”

Oh.  Hmm.  Weiss delicately clears her throat.  “I was hoping you might shoot the whole campaign.”

Thankfully, Yang has sense enough to swallow the coffee instead of spitting it out all over the table.  But she coughs a bit, patting at her chest, and gasps out a “ _What?_ ”

“I need a competent photographer that I trust, and you tick both those boxes,” Weiss quickly explains.  “I know fashion is a little outside your wheelhouse-”

“It’s half a world away from my wheelhouse,” she interrupts.  “It’s so far away my wheels couldn’t even roll the house there, Weiss.”

Sighing, she makes a last-ditch effort.  Reaches out, taking one of Yang’s hands in both her own.  Yang makes a small _Eh?_ noise, brow rising in confused panic like she half-expects Weiss to propose marriage.  And Weiss just bites the bullet.  “The Schnee name is in ruins,” she pleads.  “My father completely obliterated any scrap of credibility we held in the industry.  I had to call in every favor any of us have ever garnered just to book a space for the show.  This campaign – this launch is the last chance I have to save my family’s name and keep decades of my mother’s work from being tarnished by my father’s scandals.”

Yang’s expression crumples, her fingers squeezing around the edge of Weiss’ hand.

“Please,” she nearly begs.  “I am putting everything I have into this.  If this fails, I literally have nothing left.”

“Shit, Weiss,” Yang breathes.  “Yeah.  Okay.”  Relief washes over Weiss, and she gives Yang’s hand another squeeze.  “Okay,” Yang rolls her eyes, “moment’s over; now it’s just freaking me out.”

Smiling, Weiss lets go.  Unfolds her napkin on her lap and moves right along.  “So, Team Funky kept calling you fat?”

“Only Neon did,” dismisses Yang, “but then I kicked her ass in a Soaring Ninja tournament on the bus and she decided I was her hero or something.”

They catch up, and when the waitress brings their food, Weiss isn’t all that surprised to find that _Weenies in Bikinis_ are just mini-croissants wrapped around mini-breakfast sausages.  She isn’t even _that_ disgusted when Yang pops one whole into her mouth and talks as she chews.

It feels like pieces falling into place, and Weiss smiles.

 

\--

 

Blake shows up twenty-four minutes early, and regrets every single second she has to wait.  Six other models are seated, waiting right alongside her, each more jaw-droppingly gorgeous than the next.  Their portfolios are all contained in customized, professional binding – engraved leather, quilted padded satin.  Folding her arms over the plain, lackluster white binder in her lap, Blake tries not to worry when a girl gets called in and then comes back out what feels like only seconds later.  Sun hadn’t told her much about this job, only that the client was looking for something fresh.  _Complex_ , Sun had said, _they’re going for something unique_.

The ding of the elevator doors is soft, but clear.  When she looks, every inch of her body goes taut.  As much as she runs, Blake supposes, her past will always follow.  You can’t ever shake your own shadow.

Cinder Fall steps off the elevator as untouchable and self-assured as she appears in every campaign she’s ever done.  Like she’s busted more than a few kneecaps to get where she has and isn’t above busting a few more.  With a haughty and well-earned confidence, she’s one of the most sought-after high fashion models in the world.

Even the receptionist goes wide-eyed.  Standing and moving out from behind the counter with a soft, “Cinder, thank you for coming.  Right this way, please.”

Unaffected, detached, Cinder walks through the door like the receptionist isn’t even there.  One of the other waiting models flinches at the sight, hands clenching into fists in her lap.  Slowly, carefully, her fists unfurl.  She laces her fingers together and tries to swallow down the momentary falter in her calm facade.

Yeah.  With Cinder here, Blake knows that none of them even stand a chance.

Oddly, it makes her feel better.  Like knowing that the competition aspect just got snuffed out takes all the pressure off.  And, if the designer wants to hire a person like Cinder, well, Blake’s better off not working for them.  A bit of tension eases from her shoulders, and she actually starts to enjoy the wait.  The music playing quietly from the speakers is actually pretty good.  The framed sketches of gowns and suits hanging on the walls are incredible.  It takes longer for Cinder to come back out than any of the others before, and Blake shoots a reassuring smile to the next girl called in.

And so it goes.  They get called in, and a few minutes later, come right back out.  And then the receptionist smiles, says, “Blake Belladonna?  Right this way, please.”

Standing, Blake returns the smile.  Carries her portfolio in both hands, following the receptionist through the door.  Beyond it is a short hallway – bathrooms and a supply closet – which opens into a large room.

Big windows flood the space with late autumn sunlight.  Several associates are working; drawing up designs at stations or hand-stitching pieces, draping fabrics over dress forms to compare colors and textures.  A frosted-glass wall closes off the back third of the room, the stylized W of the designer imprinted in a band at chest height, repeating over and over.  A single large W sits at eye-level on the door, and when the receptionist opens it, she just waves Blake straight through.

“Thank you,” Blake smiles, stepping inside.  The receptionist doesn’t follow.

The back wall is nothing but windows.  Floor-to-ceiling, overlooking the city of Vale stretching out below the skyscraper.  The left wall has rolls of fabrics, shelves filled with folded cuts and squares of samples.  Instead of a desk, there’s a frosted-glass table holding a computer, some paperwork, half-finished designs.  And a small stack of headshots; nearly two dozen, if Blake had to guess.

Seated against the right wall – with more windows behind her – is Weiss Schnee.  And, okay, Sun probably should have mentioned _that_ , but Blake’s attention barely even catches on Weiss.  Because the blonde sitting next to her locks eyes with Blake with such intensity that her feet falter.

Their eyes lock, and it’s like the whole universe narrows to a pinprick.  This singular moment.  Everything narrows, as if existence itself seems to hold its breath in anticipation.  Blake feels the weight of the moment settle inside her.  Not heavy, no, but important.  It settles how her favorite coat sits around her shoulders, how her body sinks into her bed at the end of the day.  Familiar, like there’s already an imprint and this moment, this girl, just fits perfectly inside it.

Then the blonde smiles, and the whole universe blows apart at its edges.

“Hi,” Blake says, catching herself and stepping closer.  “I’m Blake Belladonna.”  She opens her binder, pulling out a single headshot and handing it to the blonde.  She passes the portfolio to Weiss, naturally.  Weiss is the client; the one to impress.

“I’m Weiss Schnee,” she introduces, “and this is the photographer, Yang Xiao Long.”  Weiss cracks the binder open with a small, inquisitive frown.  “Belladonna?”

Blake braces herself for the inevitable.  “I was working a few years ago.”

Recognition hits like lightning, and Weiss looks up at her.  Eyes narrowing with something smaller than betrayal, but close to it.  Incredulous, maybe, that Blake would even dare set foot inside her office.  “The White Fang relaunch,” Weiss drawls.  “You were the talk of the industry for, like, two years.  Do you remember that, Yang?  That campaign launched Adam Taurus’ whole career.”

It’s a gut punch, and Blake tries to remember how to breathe.

“I don’t follow fashion,” Yang dismisses, looking from the headshot to Blake and back again like she can’t believe they’re the same person.  When Yang’s eyes settle on Blake, right there in front of her, it isn’t hard to tell which she prefers.

Blake’s lungs expand, contract.  She breathes in, she breathes out.  Right.  That’s how that goes.

Weiss doesn’t shrug, but one shoulder lifts a little.  “It’s probably for the best you don’t know who he is.  By all accounts, Taurus is…” She drifts off, too professional to speak ill, but her pinched expression of distaste does more than enough to convey how the statement would have ended.

Yang absently waves the headshot in her hand, eyes on Blake.  “How old is this?”

“Um,” she blinks, pulls herself back into the present, trying to pretend like her shadow isn’t always biting at her heels.  “Only about six months.  The whole portfolio is pretty new.”

Luckily, they don’t ask _why_ it’s new.  Yang leans over in her chair, taking in the pictures as Weiss flips from page to page through the portfolio.  They both keep a professional sort of detachment.  Sharp-eyed, but giving nothing away.  Blake clasps her hands behind her back.  Patient and waiting.  She remembers how this part goes.  She was never overwhelmed by this part.

“These are…” Weiss begins, and is far too professional to finish.

Because the portfolio is not good.  Weiss and Yang both know it.  Blake knows it.  Hell, the people in the office outside probably know it, and they haven’t even seen it.

Suddenly, Yang slaps the headshot against Weiss’ chest, snatching the binder away from her.  She goes back to the start, flipping from picture to picture, the curl of irritation in her lip growing sharper with each one.

Blake hasn’t felt this small since… Well.

“Shit.  They’re shit.”  Yang flips the cover closed, her eyes meeting Blake’s with an unexpected softness.  “Whoever took these pictures doesn’t know an f-stop from an f-bomb.  You are giving Grade A material and the photographer keeps missing it by miles.”

The edge of Weiss’ mouth twitches, and…

“Pardon?” Blake blinks, because, well, what else is there to say?  She honestly hadn’t been expecting _that_.

“I have to agree,” Weiss grudgingly adds.  “In half of them, you aren’t even the focus of the shot.  Which, if there was a product involved, would be ideal; the product _should_ be the focus.  But in these?”  She waves her hand vaguely towards the binder, and Yang scoffs.

“And that’s barely even touching on the shoddy composition.”  With a disbelieving sort of smile, Yang passes the binder back to Weiss.  “Blake, if you ever want a real portfolio, _please_ give me a call.  I would even do it for free, because this one is a travesty to my craft.  Honestly, the photographer should sit in the corner to think long and hard about what they’ve done.”

Something hitches in Blake’s throat.  Her breath, her voice, her heart, she doesn’t know.  Only feels it catch and stick, choking her up.  She knew her portfolio was bad.  She just thought it was her fault.  It never occurred to her that the fault might lie with the person behind the camera.

Weiss shifts in her seat, a professionally pleasant smile on her face.  “May we please see your walk?”

 

\--

 

Weiss turns Cinder’s headshot over with a definitive sort of sigh.  “Cinder comes with too much baggage.  She’s too well-known.”

“And she’s a colossal jerk-face,” Yang mutters, digging for the last few noodles in the bottom of the take-out container.

“There is that, too,” Weiss agrees.  She sorts through the remaining headshots, turning another over onto the face-down pile.  “But I’m trying to start over.  Reinvent with a clean slate.  It has to be clean; it has to be fresh, but half these models have been the faces for other campaigns.”

Slurping up the noodles, Yang says, “Just go with Blake.  She was great.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she mutters.  And then, almost as an afterthought, “And I’m not hiring someone just because you think she's attractive.  I know your type, Yang.”

With a soft chuckle, Yang drops her chopsticks into the container, setting it aside on the table.  “Valid point, but you don’t want a clean slate.  For what you’re doing, you don’t want someone unknown.  You have to carry your baggage, Weiss.  Or, at the very least, acknowledge that it’s sitting at your feet.”

Weiss narrows her eyes in a look Yang knows.  It’s a veneer of incredulity, like how dare Yang try to tell Weiss what she needs.  But they’ve been friends for a while.  Yang can read what’s under the surface.  “What’s the story with Blake?” she questions.

“She was the face of White Fang’s relaunch when Sienna Khan took over as head designer,” sneers Weiss, frustration rising red in her cheeks.  “That’s what started all this nonsense.  White Fang and their guerilla tactics.  Infiltration and corporate espionage and-”

“And I asked about Blake,” Yang interrupts, not unkindly.  She understands Weiss’ personal history and grudge, but, “You can’t blame the model for the fashion house being run like a gang operation.  It would be like if Coco put out a bad album and you blamed me because I took the picture on the cover.”

Weiss considers that, visibly weighing the logic, and then rolls her eyes in concession.  “For about a year and a half, Blake was in every ad, every commercial they did.  And then they contracted Cinder Fall and Blake just… She just sort of fell out of the industry.  I’m not sure what happened.”  Cautiously, she asks, “Why?”

“Think about it,” Yang presses, leaning one arm on the table as the other hand reaches out to shift through the remaining headshots.  “No matter what you do, people are going to have expectations.  _Dust by Weiss_ is going to come with its own baggage and history.  You’re trying to move past Schnee Designs; reinvent it all under your own name.  If the face of the campaign is someone unknown, it’ll split the focus.”

For a moment, Weiss just stares at her.  Then, slowly, she leans back in her chair.  “Explain.”

Gladly.  Yang picks up a headshot – gorgeous girl, nineteen, never had a major job before.  “You hire this girl and suddenly – boom!  She’s the face of Dust.  Half the conversation about your new line is about _this girl_ instead of the clothing.  I don’t follow fashion, but I know how distracted the industry gets by shiny new things.  You bring in a new face, and everyone’s suddenly talking about her.  And instead of her being what launched Dust, it’s all about how Dust launched _her_.  Where _she_ will go next, what _she_ will do next.  But…”  Yang sets the picture down.  Picks up Blake’s headshot.  “What if your reinvention is the model’s reinvention, too?”

“Parallel narratives,” Weiss huffs, like she hates to acknowledge the sense it makes.  “My big return is the model’s big return, as well.  There’s no splitting the narrative, because the narrative is the same.”

A satisfied little smirk curls at Yang’s mouth.  “Everyone loves a good comeback, right?  Imagine how crazy they’ll go over _two_.”

Weiss reaches out, plucking Blake’s headshot from Yang’s fingers.  Settles back, regarding the picture with a scrutinizing eye.  “Her portfolio was terrible.”

Yang can’t help but cringe.  “Not her fault.  And you _loved_ her walk.”

She nods – she did.

“Let me reach out to her manager,” Yang requests, not quite pleading.  “Let me do a concept shoot and you can see that I’m right about this.”

Silent, Weiss considers it.  Then, sounding almost resigned, “No flirting with her.”

"I think I can control myself for one afternoon.  Besides," Yang dismisses the concern with a breezy wave of her hand, “I don’t date my subjects.”

 

\--

 

It’s a business lunch, technically, although the noise from the arcade kind of kills any professionalism.

“It’s not that bad.”  Sun swirls a fry through some hideous mixture of ketchup and mayo, popping it into his mouth with a sympathetic smile.  “And you should trust me, because I’ve seen some terrible portfolios.”

“You should have seen their faces, Sun.  It was like…” Blake props her elbow on the table, fingers curling against her cheek.  “You know when a little kid makes something in art class?  And you kind of have to smile and nod and pretend like it isn’t trash so you don’t completely crush them?”

One of his eyes closes in something close to a flinch.  “It’s really not _that_ bad.”

“Those pictures were all I could afford, and what I could afford was terrible,” she sighs.  “I knew my portfolio was bad, it just… It’s different, _knowing_ something and then having it confirmed.”

He softens, giving her plate a gentle nudge in silent command to eat.  Grudgingly, she does.  “Look, Blake,” he begins, and she already knows where he’ll end up.  “I’ve said before that I can set you up with someone.  I mean, Neptune has an entire separate list in his contacts for photographers who owe him favors.  And as far as paying goes-”

“I can’t take your money,” she interrupts.  “I won’t be indebted to you or-”

“It’s not even like that,” he says.  “I can – The agency can cover the costs.  You having a good portfolio helps you book jobs.  You booking jobs means we get paid for managing you.  It would be an investment, not a loan.”

Blake wants to believe him.  She’s known him since, well, _before_.  Knows what kind of guy he is, and she knows in her heart that Sun isn’t like that.  That his offers don’t come with strings attached or expectations.  But she can’t shake the concern, and won’t put herself into the position to feel like she owes him, or that he feels like he’s owed something.

“Maybe this was all a mistake,” she sighs.  “Trying to get back in after so long away.”  She pauses, considering.  “Maybe I could go the management route.  I mean, those who can’t do, teach, right?  Or, in this case, become agents?”

He dramatically clutches at his heart.  “Blake!”

It does the trick of drawing a smile out of her, and Sun reaches across the table, taking her hand for only a second before letting go again.

“Just let me talk to Neptune before you throw the towel in, okay?” Sun is all earnestness, all the time.  It’s impossible not to believe him.  “He’s doing some shoots in Atlas right now, but as soon as he’s back, I’ll talk to him.  See which photographers might be willing to lower their fees or waive them as a favor for him.  Okay?”

“Fine,” she concedes, “but I’m serious about the management thing.”

“Sure,” he rolls his eyes, “and I’m the Spring Maiden.  Now eat your food; I think those little kids are almost done at the Huntress machine and I want to kick some Grimm butt before your lunch break is over.”

“I refuse to play that game, Sun.”

“Oh, come on, Blake.  _Please?_ ”  He cheeses, grinning too wide.  “I think I figured out how to beat the final boss and win the last plushie to complete my collection.”

“Give me ten lien and I’ll smuggle you the plushie out of the storeroom,” she offers.

“Where’s the fun in that?” He beams in that way he does, like nothing in the world can keep him down for long.

Blake just chuckles, and they settle into an easy, comfortable silence as they eat.  When his scroll starts vibrating in his pocket, he hurries to chew the fries in his mouth, and answers the call with a muffled, “Yo and hello?”

Blake rolls her eyes, hoping it isn’t a business call.  Which means, of course, that it is.

Sun hurries to swallow, taking a big swig of his soda to wash it down, and promptly chokes.  Sputtering out a confused, “I’m sorry, who?”  He’s quiet for a moment, then, “Uh-huh.  Uh-huh.  Mmm.  Mmhmm.”

“Fascinating conversation,” murmurs Blake, smiling when he flaps a hand for her to keep quiet.

“I see,” Sun drawls, sitting up a little straighter.  “Would there be fees? …Mmhmm.”  He looks at Blake, eyes narrowing.  “Thank you very much, Miss Xiao Long.”

Blake’s heart lurches.

“I’ll discuss it with Miss Belladonna and get back to you,” he continues.  “Yes, thanks.  Bye.”

Leaning forward, Blake spreads her hands flat on the table.  “What was that about?”

“You,” he smirks, wagging his scroll at her, “just got a call-back.  Sort of.”

“What do you mean sort of?” Blake demands, heart hammering at her ribs.

“The client from the other day wants to do a concept shoot,” he explains, as if she’s met with so many other clients lately.  “One afternoon at a warehouse downtown.  They’ll provide wardrobe, hair and make-up.  She said that you wouldn’t be paid, but they’ll have food and you can keep any frames that you want for your portfolio.”

Uncertain, Blake catches her bottom lip between her teeth.  The first thing she thinks – and hates that it seems like something noteworthy, because it’s what _should_ happen, it’s how things _should_ be done – is that Yang called Sun.  The photographer called her agent, not her directly.  Faintly, in the back of her mind, a warning bell stays silent, relieved not to be ringing.

“What do you think?” she asks.

Sun considers it, typing at his scroll.  “I think it might be a chance to network, and, you know, free food.  And if this _Yang_ is any good, it’s a step closer to fixing the portfolio problem you think you have.”

“It’s a real problem, Sun.”

“I was trying to be nice, but okay, yeah, it is,” he concedes, swiping at the screen.  Slowly, his eyes widen.  “Oh.  Okay, yeah, I think you should do it.”

“Why?”  She leans across the table.  “What?  What is it?”

He swipes back to the top, wordlessly passes his scroll over, and Blake takes in the screen.

It’s the top of a website – _Little Dragon Productions_ – and as she scrolls, it’s a lot of music-oriented pictures.  Sweaty musicians on stage, perfectly lit in mid-performance, the energy crackling even in a static image.  Group shots of bands, each individual member’s personality shining through even in a cohesive unit.  And then, Blake sees what caught Sun’s attention.

“She shot Coco?” Blake says, awestruck.  “Like, _the_ Coco?”

“She didn’t just shoot Coco,” Sun chuckles.  “She took the picture that _made_ Coco.  Coco isn’t just a singer, she’s a brand because of that photo.”

It’s _the_ picture of Coco.  The first dozen results in any image search.  It had been for some shitty little magazine before Coco had even released an album yet, but… Yeah, it made Coco.  The iconic beret tipped slightly off-kilter on her head, her fingers delicately perched at the corner of her iconic sunglasses, her eyes clear and sharp looking over the frames and straight down the lens.  And the ghost of a smirk on her lips, like she has a secret the viewer just begs her to spill.

“Sooo,” Sun draws the word out for an obscene length before quickly saying, “you’re doing it, right?”

Yang took the picture that made Coco a brand.  The power in that, the promise of imbalance, nips at Blake’s heels like the sharp teeth of history.  But Yang didn't seem… Yang isn’t _him_.  Blake can just feel it in her bones that Yang is nothing like _him_.  She stares a moment longer at the picture, then hands Sun his scroll back.

All she says is, “I need the shoot for my portfolio.”

 

\--

 

It’s a small team, but Yang trusts each and every one of them without question.  For all her faults – and oh, there are many – Weiss is very good at picking good people.  Not only good at their jobs, which they are, but just genuinely _good people_.

Nora bounces between the wardrobe rack and the make-up station, shooting rapid-fire ideas at Pyrrha as she unpacks all her supplies.  Pyrrha, in all her nobility, shoots them down with grace and kindness.  “Maybe we shouldn’t do any blood,” she delicately says, “since it might clash with the color of the dress?”

“Oh, that’s a good point.”  Nora curls her fist under her chin, glaring at the wardrobe rack like the outfits have done her a personal wrong.

Tongue poking out the side of his mouth, Jaune holds his hands up, thumbs and forefingers forming an imaginary frame.  Tracing along as Ren adjusts the lights.  “That’s perfect, Ren!  The way the light hits the stairs is great.”

Ren sketches a salute with two fingers, and Yang idly lines up her various lenses on the table.

“Is no one going to ask what I think?” she calls out, easy and carefree.  All she gets in reply are varying _No_ ’s and dismissive hand waves.  Laughing, Yang hauls her heavy camera case onto the table.  She flips the latches, lifting the lid and locking the arms in place to keep it open.  Three different bodies are tucked carefully into the foam lining.  Two digital, one film – which she really should use more often; she loves working in the dark room.  She flips a little internal hatch, and the padded foam in the lid sinks down, revealing her laptop.

Just as she pulls it out, closing up the hatch again, Nora makes an inhuman noise.

“Is that her?” she screeches, tearing away towards the main doors.  “Oh my god, hi!”

Yang glances over her shoulder, and sure enough, Blake Belladonna strolls into the warehouse like she owns the joint.  Looking drop-dead gorgeous in a simple gray peacoat and skinny jeans, hair falling around her shoulders.  The heels on her shoes give her a couple inches, making Blake appear taller than the random blonde guy trailing along behind her.

His eyes roam the exposed beams and brickwork of the building with an innocent curiosity.  Yang doesn’t hate him on sight, but a knot forms in her stomach.  She’s seen controlling managers and boyfriends and manager-boyfriends hovering like vultures around some of the singers she’s worked with before.  This guy doesn’t have that air about him, a little too much space between him and Blake, but…

The guy says something, cracking into a grin, and Blake chuckles warmly.  The knot loosens, and Yang watches Nora all but body check Blake in her eagerness.  If Blake startles at the way Nora hooks a hand around her elbow, she covers it quickly.  A curious smile settling across her lips as Nora leads her in.

“And that’s Pyrrha,” Yang hears Nora narrating as they draw closer, “she’ll be getting you all dolled up, _not that you need it_.  And Ren and Jaune are helping Yang with production.  And this is Yang.”

“We’ve met,” Blake smiles, not nervous, but there’s a slight hesitation as she meets Yang’s eyes.  “Hey.”

“Hey right back,” Yang grins.  “Thanks for doing this today.”

“Of course,” she says, and then motions to her friend.  “Oh, and this is my agent, Sun.  Is it okay if he stays?”

“Yeah, of course.”  Yang offers her hand, and Sun shakes it.  “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” he smiles, and Yang catches the way Blake’s shoulders ease.  Like she’d been expecting something other than a handshake and smiles.

Brushing past it – Yang isn’t one to press – she motions vaguely to the table.  “We’re still setting up.  So, Blake, if you want to-”

“Hair and make-up,” Nora announces, leading Blake right off again.

Yang snaps, pointing at their backs.  “Yeah, go do that.”

Sun lingers beside her, looking between the table and the warehouse around them as Yang gets the laptop set up.  “So,” he drawls, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans, “the signed releases came through okay?”

“Yep,” she answers, “all the legal shit is squared away.”

He nods, rocking back on his heels.  “Concept shoot, huh?”

“Weiss has one vision for the campaign,” she explains, “I have another.  This is mostly just to show her what mine might look like.  Help her see where I’m coming from.”

He takes that in with a quiet, “Cool, cool.”  Letting his eyes wander over to where Blake is settling in, Pyrrha working her magic and visibly putting her at ease.  He turns back to Yang, curious.  “So, what is your vision?  The concept?”

“Well, the concept is Weiss’, she’s the client, but my interpretation is…” Yang trails off, considering, as the program loads on the laptop.  “Weiss calls it a _rebirth_ , but that feels too clean.  It’s more of a,” she turns her hand over, searching for the word, and settles on, “ _resurrection_.  A little messy, a little broken.  Acknowledging the history of what was, but not being bound by it anymore.”

Sun’s eyes narrow, and the only hint that he really even hears her is the slightest twitch at the edge of his mouth.  It isn’t a smile, not even close.  But he gets it.  It’s quick, only a moment, but something seems to settle between them.  An understanding of sorts.  “Yeah,” he says softly, “I think Blake is perfect for that.”

“So do I.  Plus,” she tacks on lightly, “the girl needs some real pictures to put in her portfolio.  That thing is tragic, pal.”

With an embarrassed chuckle, he rubs at the back of his neck.  “Yeah, it’s still a work in progress.”

Smiling, Yang moves back to her case.  Pulling out one of the digital cameras.  “So, do I pass?”

Sun tips his head, the picture of a confused puppy.

“This was a test, wasn’t it?” Yang casually questions, popping a fresh memory card in.  “I don’t do many fashion shoots, but I’m pretty sure agents don’t usually tag along unless their client is a minor.  Or they’re _wildly_ controlling, and you don’t strike me as the type.  Which means something else is going on, but I won’t ask.  So, there’s only one thing I need to know.”  She grabs the first lens, twisting it into place.  “Do I pass?”

Slowly, a small smile tilts across his lips.  “Yeah, I think you do.”

“Cool.  Grab a seat; take a nap; whatever you want.  There’s bottled water under the table, and dinner should be here in a few hours.”  She claps him on the shoulder, and then heads off to the staircase to check how the lighting looks on camera.

 

\--

 

The moment she steps out from behind the curtain, Sun shoots her a beaming grin and two thumbs up.  So, good.  Great.  Blake sighs, relief flooding through her veins.

“Oh my god!”  Nora claps her hands together.  “You look ah-mazing!  Yang!”

Blake turns to look.  Yang’s head is bowed, eyes on the LCD screen of her camera as Ren adjusts the lighting while Jaune seductively drapes himself all over the stairs for test shots.  In just a tank top and loose pants, Yang is painfully, effortlessly gorgeous.  She looks up at the sound of her name, her gaze locking on Blake and drinking her in.  It’s evident that her interest isn’t wholly professional, but…

It isn’t uncomfortable.  It isn’t predatory or dangerous in any way.  More like reverent.  Yang looks at her like she can see right through her skin.  Like Blake is a book she finished reading ages ago and still loves to come back to.  Yang looks at her, and it feels like the fangs of history are only a glancing graze at her heels, instead of a debilitating bite.

Blake reels, and Yang only smiles.  Gives a single nod of approval before looking back at the camera.

“Great.  Just a quick touch-up?”  Pyrrha’s warm voice is a welcome departure from Nora’s… _excitement_.  Blake smiles as Pyrrha lifts a tissue, waiting for Blake’s nod to go ahead before carefully wiping at the very corner of her lips.  And then Pyrrha steps away, a strange smile settling on her face.

Blake lifts her hands to the side.  “How do I look?”

She considers for a moment, then says, “Like you’re about to swallow the world whole.”

“So, in a word,” Nora chimes in, “ _fucking_ incredible!”

Blake chuckles, even as Pyrrha sighs, “That’s two words, Nora.”

And Nora counters with a practiced reply of, “ _Fucking_ is a qualifier and therefore does not count towards the final tally.”

“All right, Jaune,” Yang teases with a casual grin, “get your fine little booty out of my shot.”

“Aye aye,” he says, before sliding down the railing to the floor.

Blake makes her way over, Pyrrha and Nora trailing along behind.  Yang glances towards her, almost like she can’t stop herself, before clearing her throat and focusing on the set.  Which, really, is just a half-collapsed staircase leading up to what used to be offices.  The steps are metal grating, the rail blotchy with oxidation as the metal peels away from itself.  It sets enough of an aesthetic that, combined with the outfit, Blake knows exactly what they’re going for with the shoot.

But she listens anyway as Yang motions towards the stairs, saying, “What we’re aiming for with this is a spark in the darkness.  The beginning of a resurrection.  You can see the ruins of what was, but we’re trying to capture the power of surviving that.  Rebuilding from the ruin.”

Faintly, Blake feels the ghosts of bruises, the echoes of a voice she can’t ever forget.

“Okay,” she nods.

“And don’t worry,” Yang tacks on, “I’ve done shoots here before.  Despite how it looks, it’s totally safe.”

Blake nods again, then asks, “How do you want me?” And immediately cringes.

Yang just laughs.  “Oh, is _that_ how it is?”

Blake shakes her head.  “I meant-”

“I know what you meant,” she gently interrupts, a soft smile on her face.  “And to answer: I prefer to shoot subjects in motion.  Singers or bands while they’re performing.  So, you just do what feels natural to you, and I’ll try to keep up.”

“I don’t think you’ll have a problem with that,” Blake murmurs, and she can’t help the way her voice comes out.  Low and full of intention, even though she doesn’t mean to let it slip out quite so obviously.  Or at all.

The devilish smirk on Yang’s lips has her immediately backtracking.

“It’s been a while, is all,” she quickly adds.  “Bear with me if it takes a bit to get back into it.”

“I trust your instincts.” Yang offers it up like it’s nothing.  Like it doesn’t tip Blake’s world off its axis.  And then Yang makes it worse by saying, “I meant what I said the other day about your portfolio.  You know what you’re doing; you just need a photographer good enough to catch it.”

A dozen replies pool on her tongue, all a variation of the same flirtatious retort, and Blake swallows them down, one by one.  Smiles and steps forward, moving towards the stairs.

“Music?” Yang asks.

When no answer comes, Blake turns and sees they’re all looking at her.  “Sure.”

“On it.”  Nora bounces away, and then it’s down to business.

Careful of the gaps, and testing each step before settling her weight on it, Blake ascends.  The music starts, some god-awful grinding techno deconstruction – perfect for the setting – and she pauses about halfway up the stairs.  The dress is deep purple, with black accents across the corset.  It falls just above the knee in the front, a longer, intentionally-tattered train in the back.  Blake adjusts the skirt, pulling a bit of fabric free from where it caught on one of the spikes on her black boot.

Faintly, she hears Yang say, “Nora, keep an eye on that, please?” and Nora’s response of, “No tripping; got it.”

It throws her all over again; the care, the consideration.  _Common decency shouldn’t be something to marvel over_ , Blake reminds herself.  She gets herself in position as Yang rolls out her shoulders.  And when Yang approaches, with eyes like spring and a smile like sunrise, Blake feels, for just a moment, like she doesn’t have a shadow at all.

“Ready?” Yang asks.

Blake blinks.  Blake breathes.  And then she nods.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i just want to say that i love and cherish all of you, and i can't even begin to express how full my heart has been (forgive me, i'm Soft.) thank you so much. i'm still wonderfully reeling and i really hope this doesn't disappoint. take care of yourselves and each other and love the bees. also, props to google for the two intentionally bad jokes in this, but all other bad jokes are unfortunately mine

Sun makes that scrunchy face he does when he’s reaching for the dictionary during Scrabble, and Blake shifts her head, letting her gaze drift right past him.  Whatever he and the others are talking about doesn’t matter.  She needs to try and be present.  Focus on her movements, her emoting, the things she can control.

And it’s not all that different from riding a bicycle, actually.  Her body remembers what it’s supposed to do, how it’s supposed to move.  She just tries not to get so stuck in her own head – overthinking, overcorrecting, terrified of the memory of falling – that she feels the whole thing trembling beneath her.  And it _was_ shaky, for the first few minutes, but Yang is encouraging, and once she’s warmed up a little, Blake starts to find her balance with it again.

“That’s perfect,” Yang says, “you’re giving some really cool angles.  Maybe a little more towards the lens?”

Blake knows what she means – she’s looking off-camera too much; giving too much profile – and corrects.  When she does, there’s a jump in Yang’s energy, a palpable excitement.  It may have been shaky, for a few minutes, but the bicycle has steadied out.  Blake’s instincts have taken over.  It’s surprisingly easy, with Yang behind the camera.  She doesn’t play games.  There’s no ego demanding to be pandered to; no guessing at what she wants from or thinks of the shoot.  And she’s so free with herself, like it doesn’t occur to her to do anything other than give up her eagerness for someone else to catch.  Blake can easily read when to hold, only making small adjustments, or when to move with bigger shifts.

When she drapes her arms over the rail, crossed at the wrists with one palm turned up, Yang slides a foot back.  “Hold,” she murmurs, and Blake doesn’t move.  The shutter snaps.  For the first time, Yang pauses to check the screen.  Her brows rise, head nodding in approval.  “Okay, _damn_.”

“Damn?”  Blake can’t stop the little smile curling at her lips as she leans back, hands wrapped over the railing, arms locked straight.  It’s too easy, with Yang.  “Is that the expert terminology for it these days?”

“Well, I am a professional.  Got my own website and everything to prove it,” Yang chuckles.  She looks up, and the moment her eyes land on Blake, she breaks into a grin.  “Okay, now you’re just showing off.”

A surprised, breathy laugh bubbles up in Blake’s throat, and she turns away, pressing her fingers against her lips to contain it.  It’s a sign of trouble, she knows.

“What do you think?”  Yang moves closer, angling the camera to show her the screen.  Holding the rail for balance, Blake carefully crouches down closer for a look.  Slowly, Yang cycles backwards through the frames so far.  “Not bad, right?  We’re really getting into it now.”

And it’s not bad.

Because it’s _awful_.  The newest shots are fine, or even good, but cycling backwards is like watching herself fall apart, frame by frame.  The cracks in her confidence splintering and sloughing off.  The bicycle wobbling and crashing.  Blake knows – she _knows_ that it’s the reverse.  That if Yang moved her finger half an inch to a different button, the whole story would change; Blake would see herself coming together, steadying out.  But watching it rattles her all the same.  Her shadow rears, teeth glinting, and with a deep breath, she pushes it back down.  It’s been a good day so far; she wants just a little more time with something that feels like how her life used to be before it fell apart.

“Can we-” She begins, halting.  Immediately, Yang hears it in her voice, turning to look at her, concern drawing at her brow.  Blake swallows and tries again.  “Maybe I shouldn’t see them until we’re done?”

“Okay,” Yang easily agrees.  Takes a moment to regard her, then, “You want a minute?  Get more comfortable with the set, or…?”

“No, I just-” she pauses, uncertain, but Yang just tips her head, listening.  Taking a deep breath, Blake says, “I’m fine.  I feel like we were getting a good energy before.  I’d rather just stay in the moment with it, is all, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, you got it.  We can do this however you want.”  Smiling, Yang takes a small step away.  “I’ll switch out the lens for some closer, straight-on shots; give you a second to prep.  And don’t be afraid to experiment or let me know if you need something.  We’ll go through everything at the end and delete whatever you’re uncomfortable with, okay?”

It’s… That’s kind of a huge offer; putting the control in Blake’s hands like that, offering her the power to just undo work like that.  And it’s a sign of trouble just how much Blake believes that Yang would follow through with it, too.  She nods, grateful for a minute to pull herself together.

Yang calls out for Jaune, and Blake carefully shifts her feet, trying to keep her shadow at bay.  Nora slips in to adjust the train of the dress, “You are just _crackling_ ; I want to put you in a bottle,” and Blake murmurs a sincere, if slightly confused, “Thanks.”  Jaune brings a different lens over, Yang swaps them out, and then they’re right back into it.

Yang stays on the ground, crouching to shoot straight up the stairs, and Blake tries to get that feeling back.  It isn’t difficult, with Yang there.  There’s no reason for it, and it feels dangerous to admit, but Blake trusts her.  Cautious hope begins to rise the way those first few streaks of daylight carefully test the sky before the sun fully stretches over the horizon.  Blake remembers how it felt to take an active part in creation.  To help bring something to life.  She remembers how much she used to love it.

Yang moves up the steps, closer, and Blake…

Oh, Blake just _unfolds_.  Without the railing between them, there’s no barrier to break the connection.  Yang’s presence is magnetic, engaging.  Blake feels herself fall open, soaking up the energy that she so freely gives, the soft encouragements eagerly tripping past her lips.  The whole world could fall apart for all that Blake notices; it’s just the two of them, working together to create something new from what remains.

The shutter snaps, and Yang goes carefully still.  Waiting.  As if they have nothing but time; as if Blake holds all the cards and Yang _really_ _is_ just trying to keep up.  For a moment, Blake just stares her down through the lens of the camera.

Something unhinges in her chest as Blake sits.  Leans back against the rail, face turned to the camera.  One leg stretched out on the step below, arms folded over her other bent-up knee, hands dangling freely.  It’s a casual pose, all things considered, but it feels like a bold move, and Blake thinks she might actually be able to do this again.  Rebuild from the ruin; reclaim at least _some_ of what had been taken from her.

Yang takes three shots before Blake cocks a brow, and Yang’s entire body tenses up.  “Hold,” she murmurs, voice sounding thick behind the camera.

Gaze piercing through the lens, Blake holds.  Her skin buzzes with the intensity of the moment, the familiar pressure of anticipation in her chest that she never thought she'd feel again.  This is what she had loved, before, about modeling.  Feeling part of something bigger.  Spinning an intangible idea into reality.

The shutter snaps.

Yang exhales sharply, clearing her throat and pulling back to check the screen.  For a long moment, she just stares at it.  Then, she says, “That’s it.”  Yang looks up at her, beaming.  “That’s _the shot_.”

Slowly, Blake’s smile unfurls, blooming.  She exhales, and the pressure flutters into warmth between her ribs.  “Oh.  Cool.”

“Aww,” Nora whines, sounding like she’s a whole universe away as Yang holds Blake’s gaze, “I have four more outfits prepared.”

 

\--

 

They get through two more dresses before the food comes.  While Blake changes, Sun lingering outside the curtain, Jaune and Pyrrha help Yang pack up her cameras and lenses so there’s room at the table, and Ren and Nora dismantle the lights.  Then they all settle in to eat.  Blake and Sun on either side of her as Yang loads the afternoon’s work onto her laptop.

“Where does the king keep his armies?” Yang asks, voice already lilting in amusement as she pulls the memory card from the reader to pop the next one in.

“No one fall for that,” Nora – that traitor – mutters around a mouthful.  “It’s a trap.”

“Oh, let Yang make her jokes,” Pyrrha smiles, “I think they’re rather cute.”

_Cute?_   Yang scoffs, “They’re hilarious, thank you very much.”

“I think I’ve actually heard that one before,” Ren muses.  “It’s something about shirts, isn’t it?”

“Way to ruin the punchline,” Jaune playfully grumbles, and Weiss should really give him a raise.

Blake heaves out a very indulgent sort of sigh.  “Where does the king keep his armies, Yang?”

“And you fell for it,” says Nora, as Yang grins, “Up his _sleevies_ , get it?”

“Yes, but that’s a terrible joke.”  Blake smiles anyway, and it’s small, but there.

Which, really, is the whole point.  When they’d first started, she was still hesitant, uncertain, half-lost in her own thoughts.  That’s what warm ups are for – getting comfortable – but then something just _clicked_ , and it was all Yang could do to keep up for the rest of the shoot.  Blake’s confidence growing more and more with each frame, her movements natural and her presence captivating.  Even now, muttering a disbelieving little “ _Sleevies_ ,” Blake smiles in this way that, while not being carefree, has a hint of ease to it.  Like she’s savoring a moment of relief from some heavy burden.  She smiles like she hasn’t done it in years, and Yang would blow through her whole repertoire of bad jokes if it kept that smile up a little longer.

If it kept the whole group relaxed and comfortable and at ease.  Unwinding.  Chatting and laughing and having fun.

The new batch finishes loading, and Sun hunches closer to look at the screen.  One hand holding the container under his chin as the other shovels food into his mouth.  Much more composed, Blake shifts to the edge of her seat and crosses her legs to lean forward.  For a few minutes, they just scroll through the thumbnails, Yang obediently enlarging and tagging the various frames they point to.

They bicker back and forth about some of them, but Sun always relents when Blake insists, so Yang doesn’t really interject.  Every shoot requires a culling after – deleting repetitive frames, or out of focus frames, or just plain bad frames – but she’s never done one with other people like this unless the client pushed for it.  It’s not so bad, and they have a good eye.  Most of what they’re selecting are shots she’d pick herself, anyway.

Then Sun lurches forward, jabbing his fork so dangerously close to the screen that Blake makes a choked noise of warning.  The fork stops just shy, and all he says is, “What is _that?_ ”

It is, of course, _the_ shot.

“That one is…” He says, trailing off as Yang pulls it up on full screen.

“Oh,” Blake breathes out, “I look… _Oh_.”

Yeah, that had been Yang’s reaction catching it.

Harrowing seems too small a word for the raw vulnerability radiating out of the picture.  Blake’s pose is casual, more tired than relaxed, but there’s an intensity in her expression.  A challenge in the arch of her brow, battling with this haunted look in her eyes.  As if she’s expecting the world to do its worst.  As if she’s waiting for it to tear her to pieces.  As if she won’t just go ahead and survive that, too; battle-weary and fundamentally altered by the experience.

Weiss had wanted a rebirth, clean slate, but… Yang knows what it is to reach that breaking point – that precipice where the world just _ends_.  She knows what it is to fall over the edge, and how much it takes to drag yourself back up that cliff to solid ground again.  She knows how messy it is to resurrect from your own ruin.  The picture is perfect.  Blake was a powerhouse; Yang had just surrendered to the force in front of her, desperately trying to do it justice.

Smiling, Yang turns her head.  “You look like you just landed a major fashion campaign.”

And when Blake meets her eyes, smile small and surprised, Yang knows she’s a goner.

So, naturally, she asks, “What do you call a seagull that flies over the bay?”

It catches the others’ attention.  Blake sighs out, “What?” with her eyes sliding closed like she half-dreads the answer.

Yang laughs.  She can’t help it.  “A bagel.”

It takes a second, but then the whole group erupts in a chorus of groans and boos.

“Do you have a book of these?” Sun grimaces.  “Like ‘Bad Jokes for Dull Parties’ or something?”

“More like ‘Bad Jokes for _Gull_ Parties,’ eh?” Yang grins, looking expectantly around the group.  No one gives her anything, except Nora, who half-heartedly throws a noodle at her.  Yang just catches it in her mouth, and they all start chatting again.

The culling actually goes pretty quickly.  The worst are still good, and the best are incredible; even the shaky first few have this unsettling sense of aftermath about them.  They won’t get used – Yang double-checks, politely pretending not to notice the hint of a flinch when Blake looks at them, before deleting them entirely when she asks.

Sun starts waffling over some, and Blake just turns to Yang with a firm, “We’ll take your word on the rest.  Just send through whatever else you think is good.”  Then, softer, “Thank you, for this.”

“Of course; just part of the job,” Yang says, a touch dismissive.  She’s not about to press for more or draw it out, but Blake sets her fingers on the edge of the table, very near to Yang’s arm.  Not touching her, but close.

“No,” she insists, and Yang meets her eyes.  “Thank you.  I haven’t – It was a great shoot.  It really helped me ease back into this.”

Slowly, and a touch disbelieving, Yang smiles.  “You saw that picture, right?”

Blake glances at the laptop, her brow furrowing curiously as she looks back.  “Yes?”

“Blake,” she chuckles, “you never got _out_ of this.  That’s hands down the best moment I’ve gotten since I first worked with Coco.”  Yang sees her breath hitch, the words washing over her.  Yang adds, “It kind of sucks, actually, that it’s only a concept and no one will see it.”

“Oh,” Sun laughs from her other side, drawing both their attention, “people are going to see it.  That’s _so_ going in the portfolio.”

Blake chuckles, a blush rising in her cheeks as she pokes at her food.  Yang watches her for a moment, then grabs her own dinner to really dig in.  And as the group chats, relaxed, a sense of sureness settles over her.  Yang had mostly been doing this as a favor to Weiss, but the more it comes together, the more she finds herself genuinely excited for how it might turn out.

She can feel it in her blood; this has the potential for something great.

 

\--

 

Weiss can only sigh, because, “Were the corpses really necessary?”

"Come on; resurrection, _zombies_ ," Yang laughs, looking completely undisturbed as she lounges on the sofa with a mug.  One leg pulled up, the other kicked out on the coffee table.  “That picture is the greatest thing I’ve ever done in my career.”

“Then your career is astoundingly lacking in achievements,” she says, turning back to the computer monitor.  It’s a great picture of Blake – or, Weiss assumes it is, but she’s rather distracted by the models made up to look like zombies that have been edited in, draped over the stairs at Blake’s feet.  “Why would you waste time on that?  Where did you even _find_ those?”

“A job I did for Brawnz when he went solo,” Yang dismisses.  “His manager insisted on the concept and I needed the money.”

Weiss squints, and the models _are_ reminiscent of Brawnz’s former band members, now that she knows to see it.  Brutally unsubtle, thematically, and she just hits a button on the keyboard to get it off the screen, the next image in the slideshow pulling up.  It’s the exact same shot – _sans corpses_ – and…

Oh.  “Well, crap.”  Weiss props her elbow on the desk, chin in her palm.  It’s perfect.

Yang stands, stepping onto and over the table.  The office is small – a corner closed off by a half-wall from the rest of the studio – and Yang annoyingly ruffles her hair with a quick, “Told you so,” before taking two more steps to the kitchenette.  Which is only a mini-fridge with a coffee maker on top and a stand-alone sink beside it.

“Sure you don’t want anything?” Yang questions, refilling her mug.

“You have several film canisters and what I hope is a potato wrapped in foil,” Weiss drawls.  “I’m sure.”

With a confused hum of protest, Yang opens the fridge to check.  As if Weiss has any reason to lie about its sad, meager contents; as if she hadn’t already checked when she arrived – there’s not even water.  “Oh, huh,” she breathes.  “Guess I forgot to restock this when I went shopping for the apartment.”

“Unless your culinary skills extend to making raw film palatable for human consumption, that may be a good guess.”

“Well, I can bake a cake with only a coffee mug and a microwave, so anything’s possible.  Dream big, Schnee.”

There’s a heavy, metallic groan from across the studio as the main door slides open on its track.  Weiss glances over as Yang straightens with a bright, “Hey, Velvet!”

Velvet pauses, only half-inside.  Sees Yang, sees Weiss, and then takes a nervous step back out, saying, “Oh, I’m sorry, Yang; there wasn’t anything written on your schedule.  I can-”

“No worries, I gave you a key for a reason.”  Yang waves her in with a chuckle of, “Besides, it’s only Weiss.”

“Need I remind you that I can void your contract at any given time, and for any reason I see fit?” Weiss asks.

“Yeah, but you won’t,” Yang counters, and, _ugh, that’s true_.  She carries her coffee out to go talk with Velvet, and Weiss turns back to the screen.

The picture is rather incredible.  She wasn’t completely swayed on Yang’s vision, but the image captures it perfectly.  The driving force is right there for her to see.  And the worst part is that it actually gives Weiss ideas on how to improve some of her designs; really embrace the interpretation.  She hits the key to pull up the next picture, and it’s just as astounding.  One by one, she dutifully goes through each of the frames Yang selected.  Each fantastic in its own, irritating way.  Weiss can’t believe she’s about to hire someone who once worked for _White Fang_.  Someone that Yang obviously flirted with, despite saying she wouldn’t; that much is clear in the careful, almost tender framing of some of the shots.

There’s one where Blake’s head is turned from the camera, body angled as if in retreat up the stairs.  The lines are great, and the dress looks flawless for a discarded design, but every inch of the picture drips with romance.  All that’s missing are the misty moors to brood on.  And, _apparently_ , Yang can just edit those in.

When the slideshow reaches the zombies again, Weiss skips past it, staring a moment longer at the best shot of the bunch, before spinning in her chair to glare across the studio.  They chat for a moment more, then Velvet heads off to develop the _experiments_ she calls art in the dark room Yang lets her use, and Yang slowly makes her way back over to the office.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Weiss asks.

Yang hops up on the half-wall with a teasing, “Careful, Weiss, you’re sounding a little jealous.”

They’ve known each other long enough that Weiss hears the deflection in it.  “Just keep your pants on until the campaign is done,” she huffs, and Yang chuckles into her coffee.  Rolling her eyes, Weiss grabs her purse off the desk and stands.

“And the verdict?” Yang asks, with this insufferably pleased smile like she already knows the answer.

“You were right,” Weiss grudgingly concedes.  “I’ll get in touch with her agent, then have legal finalize all the releases and contracts.  You’ll have a full budget breakdown in a few days, and hopefully we can meet with the location scout over the weekend.  Can I convince you to stay on as our in-house?”

Yang visibly reels at that, teetering precariously backwards.  “Your _what?_ ”

Weiss sighs, shoulders slumping in preemptive defeat.  “This… Yang, you worked with Blake for a single afternoon with designs that are never going to see the light of day, and it was…” She flaps a hand helplessly at the monitor, the picture still filling it.  “If this launch goes well, I will need someone moving forward, and I would like it to be you.”

Slowly, Yang leans forward, a smirk curling across her mouth.  “You didn’t realize I was actually good.”

“Of course, I did,” she scoffs.  “I wouldn’t have asked you to do this in the first place if I didn’t.”

“You only asked me because no fashion photographer will come anywhere near the name Schnee these days,” counters Yang, but there’s no venom in it, and her smirk settles into an easy smile.  “Just admit it; you underestimated me.  _And_ Blake.”

Weiss’ eye twitches.

Yang waggles her brows.

“Fine,” she huffs, “I did.  So, will you?”

Uncertainty creeps into her smugness, and Yang wavers.  “Can I think on it?  That’s a big thing to just throw out there.”

“Of course,” Weiss agrees, cracking a small smile.  “And you can say no.  Our acquaintanceship has survived worse.”

Yang chuckles.  “Just call me a friend, Ice Queen.”

“When I finally leave this mortal coil,” Weiss slips her purse onto her shoulder, walking out of the office area, “I will use my dying breath to utter the word _acquaintance_ in your general direction.”

“What if I die before you do?” she grins.

“It will be because I killed you for insisting that we’re friends.”

Yang’s bright laughter rings against the high ceiling of the studio, and Weiss bites back a smile as she hauls open the metal sliding door to leave.

 

\--

 

Tucked between a jewelry store and a restaurant Blake can’t even afford an appetizer at, Haven Modeling isn’t quite as fancy a set-up as its neighbors, but it is nice.  Welcoming, despite the massive portrait of Neptune hanging just inside, his smile literally sparkling out of the frame.  Behind the front desk, Scarlet gives her a nod in greeting and waves her right down the hallway.

Blake passes two offices, glass doors with black lettering announcing the agent names, before reaching Sun’s.  He’s standing, poring over a dozen prints spread out on his desk when she enters.

“These are, like, mind-blowingly amazing,” he says, wide-eyed and miming explosions at his temples.  “Like, I’d suggest you make a full portfolio just from these, if it wasn’t, you know…”

“So obvious they’re all from the same shoot?” She chuckles, setting her bag down on a chair.  Pulling the binder out so they can get to work.

“Yeah,” he says lightly, “that’s a _slight_ hitch in the master plan.”

Sun already has _the_ shot set aside – as if there’s no question that’s going into the portfolio.  And looking at it, right there on glossy photopaper, there isn’t, really.  Now it’s just a question of which other ones should be included with it.  A few get nixed because it’s the same outfit, and, “That’s just bad taste,” he chuckles, filing them away for future use or reference.  A few more get filed away because, while they’re good, or even great, they’re lacking in what he calls the _Pop!_ factor.  In the end, they get it narrowed down to two.

“Your angles in this one are all _edgy_ and the shadowing is so cool; great for art or editorials,” he says, before humming, “ _but_ this one’s kind of dreamy, which is good for commercial work.”

“Perfume ads.”

“Yeah.”

Blake doesn’t hate the idea – at this point she’ll take almost anything to re-familiarize herself with working again; Yang was great, but she isn’t the _only_ photographer in the world – but it presents a bigger decision.  The portfolio determines the bookings, so, what kind of bookings is she hoping for?  What kind does she realistically think she can get?

The intercom buzzes, and Sun lifts the receiver with a, “Quick, Scarlet, scary or dreamy?”  A moment passes, and then his eyes dart towards the door, widening in panic.  “Wait, right now?  Like, she’s here right now?”

Blake steps away, moving towards the door.

“Of course, send her in,” Sun says.  “And make some fresh coffee or tea or something; we may be new, but we are a _professional_ agency.”

“Are you, though?” Blake teases, and Sun just makes this helpless whine, kind of proving her point, fumbling to hang up and frantically clean his desk.  She opens the door, peering down the hallway.

All she can see around the corner by the desk is a flash of shockingly white hair pulled up in a high ponytail, and then Weiss Schnee is stepping into the hallway.  Blake half-steps out, holding the door open with her foot.  “Hello again, Miss Schnee,” she says, extending a hand.

“Weiss, please,” she says lightly, shaking her hand.  Weiss’ gaze slowly drops and… Oh, no.  Blake had come straight from her opening shift at the arcade.  “I was hoping to just speak with your agent, but I’m glad you’re here, Blake,” Weiss politely says, tearing her eyes away from the most unflattering khakis to ever be sewn only to take in the polyester-blend polo shirt instead.

Well.  It’s too late for Blake to make herself more presentable, so she just waves Weiss into the office.  Sun introduces himself as Blake tries and fails to smooth out the wrinkles in her shirt, and then they all settle in.

Delighted, Sun props his elbows on the desk, chin cupped in his palms.  “How can we help you today, Weiss?”

“I know this isn’t typical, and I apologize for just barging in,” she begins, choosing her words carefully, “but this is a very important campaign for me.  I was hoping to further discuss some of the particulars before any sort of formal or binding offer is made.”

“Of course,” Blake agrees.  That Weiss is here, what Weiss is saying… It’s not the conversation you have if you don’t plan to pursue a relationship.  You don’t show up in person just to turn someone down.  All the same, Blake tries not to let her hopes get higher than a hole in the ground.

With a deep breath, Weiss turns in her seat to look Blake straight in the eyes.  “Do you still have any contact with the hierarchy of White Fang?”

And she can honestly answer, “No.  Not for a long time.  And never again.”

Weiss regards her for a moment, seeming to weigh the veracity, and then comes to a decision.  Her sigh is small, soft, but her shoulders loosen.  Nodding, she says, “There’s a lot riding on Dust’s launch.  The entire concept is about rebirth.  Well, no, it’s more of a-”

“Resurrection,” Sun lightly says.  “Yang explained it a little the other day.”

“I like the idea behind it,” Blake offers.  “From the way she described it, it sounds like you’re doing something really meaningful with the concept.”

A strange look settles over Weiss’ expression for a moment, but then she nods, primly clearing her throat.  “Thank you.  And good; I’m glad she covered that already.  Yes, so, the results of the proof of concept shoot were,” she pauses, and each compliment comes out like she has to drag it kicking and screaming from behind the safety of her teeth, “very good.  Better than I was expecting, honestly, and pleasantly surprising.”

What glowing praise.  Blake only smiles.  “Thank you.”

Weiss starts to speak, and then stops herself.  Begins again, and stops again.  For a minute, seems to wrestle with how to phrase it, or what she wants to say.  And then, she just caves.

“This means a lot to me, in a very personal way,” explains Weiss.  “I don’t know how much you’ve kept up with the industry, Blake, but I have a lot riding on this campaign.  I need to know that everyone involved with this project is _in it_.  Do you understand?”

Blake understands, of course – the Schnee scandals were big enough to enter the regular news cycle, and Sun and Neptune were privy to internal industry gossip – but she’s smart enough to hear the weight behind the words.  Smart enough to give them time to sink in, to fully accept the severity and depth of them.

“I know what it’s like,” Blake finally says, “to live in the shadow of someone else.  To live with the repercussions of someone else’s decisions.  To try and build your life back up from the wreckage someone else leaves it in.”

When she finishes, Blake holds Weiss’ gaze, trying to impress just how much she means that.  It takes a long moment, but then relief breaks across Weiss’ face in a shaky smile.

“ _But_ ,” Blake continues, and the smile wilts.  She might be cutting herself off at the knees, but Blake needs to know the kind of people she’s potentially involving herself with.  Yang, and the whole team from the shoot, had been great, but if she’s doing this again, she needs to be _sure_.  “I’d like to ask you a question, as well, since we’re discussing the particulars.”

Weiss sits up a little straighter, squaring her shoulders almost in anticipation of a fight.  “Go ahead.”

“The funding, and actual manufacturing of the clothes,” Blake begins, and she doesn’t even need to finish the question, because it’s obvious that Weiss knows how it will end.  Scandals that big don’t stay quiet.

“I am fully aware that my father operated Schnee Designs in a moral gray area,” Weiss says, and _that’s_ putting it lightly.  But then her expression shifts, a complicated mix of resignation and determination.  “Which is exactly why I’m doing this.  I won’t excuse his business practices or partnerships, but my family poured their hearts into that company long before he ever married into it, and their legacy shouldn’t be smeared by his actions.  My father was not the start of our name, and I _refuse_ to let him be the end of it.”

Then Weiss holds Blake’s gaze, almost defiant.  And it’s not the same, but she knows what it looks like when a person is haunted by their own shadow.  Slowly, Blake nods.  “Okay.”

“Okay,” Weiss echoes, and it feels like an understanding.  She tells Sun she’ll send through the official offer letter by end of business, then Weiss shakes both their hands again and leaves.

Once she’s safely out of view of the glass door, Sun throws his hands victoriously into the air, lazily kicking his feet up onto the desk.  “Who is the best agent in the whole world?  Go on, Blake, you can say it.”

“Pretty sure that’s Sage,” she says, “seeing as his top model is Neptune, after all.”

“ _Please_ ,” Sun scoffs, folding his hands behind his head, “that’s only for legal reasons since Neptune and I are dating.  And soon enough I’ll get to hang _your_ first magazine cover in the foyer and then Sage won’t have _anything_ left to brag about.”

“Yes, because Sage is such a braggart,” she chuckles, leaning over in her chair in search of where the binder disappeared to.  “Where did you put the portfolio?”

He tips back in his chair – reaching for what’s either the computer tower or the trash can; truthfully, she wouldn’t be surprised – and pulls out the binder, casually passes it over.  “So, superstar, this job’ll blow doors wide open for you.  Ready to take it all on?”

Not in the least.  But, Blake thinks with a smile, at least she has a future to be unprepared for.  It feels good to hope again.

 

\--

 

“Knock knock,” Yang drawls, slouching through the open door and pouring herself into a chair.  She just slumps sideways over the arm, letting her feet dangle as she gets her head more comfortable.

“Are you drunk?” Weiss questions, sorting through paperwork on the other side of the table.  “I know it’s technically happy hour on a Friday, but show _some_ professionalism, Yang.”

“I’m just exhausted,” she answers, fighting back a yawn.  “I was up at dawn to clean my apartment, and then I had what was supposed to be a quick shoot at nine o’clock this morning, but I had to listen to a thirty-minute medley of Coco’s greatest hits on the French horn because the client wouldn’t stop gushing about the acoustics in my studio.  The whole day went downhill from there.”

“Coco’s….” Weiss pauses, parsing through that.  “Nine o’clock.  On the French horn.”

“ _I know_.”

“Did you at least charge for the additional time?” she asks, and that probably would have been a good idea.

“I was mostly so confused by it that I just clapped when he was finished,” she says.  With a small hum of what might be amusement – it’s hard to tell sometimes with Weiss – she gets back to sorting.  Yang lifts her head a little, watching her.  “What is all that?”

“Details on an editorial spread I was hoping to land before the runway show,” Weiss explains.  “The cleverly-named _Torchwick by Roman Torchwick_ line got cut and they need a replacement feature.  I printed them out in triplicate for you and Blake to look over, as well.”

“Why would we need to look it over?”

“Because it would be _your_ pictures and _her_ face in the spread.”

“Never say ‘ _face in the spread_ ’ again.”

“Your maturity level plummets to a chasm when you’re tired.”

“You _definitely_ shouldn’t follow it up with the word _chasm_.”

“You are just... _so_ gay.”

“That’s rich, coming from _you_.”

“Um?” Someone knocks at the open door, and Yang sits fully upright to find Blake in the doorway, blinking off confusion, a quirk in her lips.  “Sorry to interrupt, but-”

Weiss just waves her in with a, “Please do, I beg of you.”

“Hey!” Yang chuckles, swinging one foot down to the floor.  Her protest goes ignored, of course.

“The measurements are all done, so we’re ready to start the fittings whenever you give the okay,” Blake says, moving closer to the table.  And there’s a splotch of darkness spread across her polo shirt and khaki pants.  A stain of some sort that managed to hit both.  Huh.

“Nora’s packing up for the day?” Weiss questions.

Blake nods, then adds, “Pyrrha’s still working on the designs, but she said she’ll be in in a minute or two.”

“Wait, is this a creative team meeting?” Yang asks, looking to Weiss.  “I thought you called me in about the location stuff tomorrow.”

“It’s called multi-tasking, Yang,” she says, pushing out of her chair.  She rounds the table, passing a little packet of papers to Blake, and an identical packet to Yang.  “Look those over whenever you get time, please.  I’ll go get Pyrrha and then we can all pin down the details for the main shoot.”

Blake settles into the other chair, and Yang tries to look over the papers.  Feels her eyes sliding in and out of focus.  It’s been a long day.  She tips her head, looking at the stains on Blake’s clothes instead, because, _really_.  She _has_ to ask.  “Laundry day?”

Blake follows her gaze, then sighs like she hadn’t realized how obvious they were.  “Some kid threw a whole pizza at me earlier, tray and all.”

Yeah, that checks out.  “You do seem like the type to start food fights with little kids.”

“I work at an arcade and there was a birthday party,” Blake chuckles as her attention shifts back to the papers.  “He was just rowdy.”

For a minute, they sit in silence.  Yang tries to indulge it, reading through the fine print of the paperwork, the color-coordinated sticky notes Weiss has plastered at certain parts, but she looks over just as Blake’s eyes are cutting away from _her_.  So, Yang breaks with a bright, “Is modeling just a side gig, then?”

Blake gives her a cursory glance before dryly drawling, “Yes, modeling is my side job because my true aspiration is rising to the prestigious echelons of lower management at the Aura Arcade.”

Grinning, Yang asks, “How’s that going for you?”

“Flexible schedule.  Free meal with every shift over six hours.  All the rounds of Soaring Ninja that I can stand.”  She hums, considering, and then something softens in her expression.  “All in all, I actually can’t complain.  The owner, Maria, is being really great about all this.  Although, she does tell me to _work it_ every time she sees me now.”

“Oh, she sounds fun.”

“Yeah, she’s _something_ ,” Blake mumbles.

Chuckling, Yang turns back to her paperwork for a moment.  But she feels Blake’s eyes on her again, and catches the curl of a smile on her lips when she looks over.  “So, what is?” Yang asks, and Blake quirks a brow, not understanding.  “Your aspiration?  Why’d you get into modeling?”

Slowly, Blake looks up at her.  And Yang can see the gears turning; can see Blake figuring out _if_ or _how_ she wants to answer, and then arranging and rearranging her answer before she gives it.  When she speaks, it’s slow and careful, but not uncertain.

“I’ve always read a lot,” she explains.  “I like being able to discover new worlds, get lost in the characters.  When I first started modeling, I worked a lot with artists.  It was,” she pauses, turning it over a few times in her head before saying, “really freeing to be able to bring stories to life like that.  Instead of just reading them, I could help to create them.”  A touch of pink rises in her cheeks, and she undercuts herself by saying, “If that makes any sense.”

“It does,” she assures her, feeling the fond little smile pulling at her lips.  There's something beautiful about that.  "Wanting to give something to the world."

Blake holds her gaze for a moment, eyes soft, then catches herself.  Glances around the office before looking back.  “What about you?  Why photography?”

“I don’t know,” Yang shrugs a little, “it just always felt like life happened too fast to me.  One day I’m reading my little sister bedtime stories, and the next we’re graduating high school.  And, like, I remember what happened in between, but… Not really?”  She thinks of Ruby, tries to remember what their mom's face looked like.  Not in a picture, but right there in front of her, and can’t.  She can’t even remember when she began to forget, but it feels like a lifetime ago.  “I like having a way to look back on things, because sometimes you don’t always remember on your own.”

“I get that,” Blake says quietly, and when Yang looks at her, she can see the battle-weariness etched into the ghost of a sad smile on her lips.  “How even the clear memories can go fuzzy at the edges, or get too sharp in places, until you’re not certain what’s real and what’s just time playing tricks on you.”

“Yeah,” Yang murmurs, and she’s probably too tired; this all feels too honest.  “Like parts just went missing, or were inserted after, or you can’t be sure.”

The edge of Blake’s mouth twitches upwards, quickly falls.  “Time always takes more than it gives like that.”

They hold each other’s eyes, and the silence is heavy in a way Yang can’t explain; just _feels_ deep in her chest like the weight of what gets left behind when only a piece of the whole resurrects, like something being unearthed, like things she thought she had learned to live without.  She’s too tired, and it’s too heavy to hold, but it drops before the ache sets in.

“All right, let’s get started.”  Weiss strides in with Pyrrha in tow.  “Yang, no jokes.”

“Not a problem.”  Yang swings her other leg down, offering Pyrrha the chair.  She tries to protest, but Yang just plops herself on the edge of Weiss’ desk, lifting her hip when Weiss pushes a folder under her butt with a huffy little, “There’s a metal button on your pocket; you’ll scratch the glass.”

They all settle in to talk details about the actual shoot, and Blake never even once looks at Yang through the whole meeting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, i really didn't mean to take so long to update. sorry about that! all the stuff from RTX (new outfits! new hair!!) got me hype so i knocked out some writing and editing, finally lol still, despite my best efforts, some errors might've slipped through. anyways, we're going to get so much good content soon! take care and love the bees! <3

The first payment clears, and Blake nearly has a heart attack in the elevator.  She knew what it would be, of course, but it’s still jarring to see the bank notification on her scroll.  To see that it’s _real_.  Any savings she had were spent on starting over, and this… It’s not enough to quit her day job, but she’s excited to go grocery shopping without having to do math before putting things in her basket.  A little dazed, she silences her scroll and slips it back into her purse, taking out the signed packet for Weiss.  She steps into the foyer when the doors slide open.  The receptionist motions her right through with a smile, and Blake returns it in kind, waving as she slips through the door.   The office is busy, just shy of chaotic, and she searches for Weiss or Nora, coming up empty.  But Weiss’ office door is propped open, so Blake weaves through the stations for it.

Weiss paces in front of the windows, scroll at her ear and face pinched in annoyance.  Seated, Yang looks casually unconcerned, hair falling loose around the shoulders of her deep V-neck, typing a message on her own scroll.  They both look when Blake leans through the door, and although Weiss gives only a fleeting nod of acknowledgment, a grin splashes across Yang’s face.

“Hey,” Blake says quietly, giving the packet a little wave as she steps fully inside.  “I signed all the stuff for the editorial submission."  Yang reaches out to take it, carefully setting it on Weiss' desk.  "Also, we’re supposed to do fittings, but I didn’t see Nora.”

Yang leans back, resting her elbow on the back of her chair.  “She’s in the-”

“No, that is unacceptable,” Weiss snaps, spinning on her heel to continue pacing.  “We made a _deposit_.  I don’t care if Coco herself wants the venue; we have an _agreement!_ ”

Yang’s grin slides into an apologetic grimace.  “Sorry, we’re about to lose the-”

“It’s being-” Weiss abruptly halts, voice pitching into something nearing a screech.  “It’s being _bought?_   As in _purchased?!_ ”

Rolling her eyes, Yang stands up.  Follows Blake out, pulling the door closed behind them, muffling Weiss’ yelling.  “Yeah,” Yang drawls, “we just lost the location, so it’s going to be a little crazy for a bit.”

Brow furrowing, Blake watches the vague, semi-shapeless form of Weiss go back to pacing on the other side of the frosted glass.  “That’s a pretty big setback.  How many contingencies do we have?”

There’s a flicker of surprise in Yang’s eyes that quickly smooths back into a casual unconcern.  “A few; our second choice was already booked, so that’s off the table.  Glynda, the location scout, has a whole list, though, so I’m sure it’ll be fine.”  Blake nods, glancing around the office again.  The borderline-chaos might tip entirely, then.  “ _We_ , huh?”

Blinking, Blake mentally backtracks.  Tries not to notice how Yang’s eyes go soft, even as her smirk curls sharper.  It wasn’t a slip, exactly.  She likes this project; the idea of it and the team involved.  It feels good, to be finding her footing again.  They seem like good people to do that with.  “We,” she says simply, “as in the team.”

A small hum rises in her throat, and Yang says, “Nora and Pyrrha are already in the closet.  You can hop on in with them.”

Again, Blake nods.  Yang only smiles, heading back to rejoin Weiss.

Blake turns back through the office for the closet.  Which is only a storage area filled with racks of in-progress and finished designs – but there’s enough space to be comfortable, for them not to be bumping into each other.  As Blake enters, Nora and Pyrrha both greet her warmly, Nora shifting outfits on one of the racks as Pyrrha holds up make-up sketches against them.

Blake moves for a bare dress form in the corner.  She slips her bag over the neck, then unbuttons her coat.  “Socks or no?”

“Well, the one has tights,” Nora answers, and that means no.

“I’ll be out of your hair in just a minute, Blake,” Pyrrha says.

“It’s fine, there’s no need to rush,” she smiles.  “I remember how crazy it can get.”

Pyrrha quietly chuckles, and with a deep breath to prepare, Blake takes off her shoes and socks, and begins to undress down to her bra and underwear.  While she maybe isn’t _thrilled_ to have someone poking at her for hours, Nora is… Innocent isn’t the right word, but her intentions are.  This is work.  The measurements had gone fine, so Blake breathes and tells herself that the fittings will, too.  After all, if she wants to do this again, she’ll have to get used to this sort of thing.

“We’ve already made some alterations, so it shouldn’t be too long of a day,” Nora announces, grabbing a few pieces from the rack.  “Fingers crossed, at least; Weiss keeps complaining about the schedule.”

“The location trouble has her worried,” Pyrrha sighs.

“I was speaking to Yang and they just lost it,” Blake says, and they both wheel around.  For a brief moment, it’s perfectly fine.  They’re concerned, as they should be, but it only lasts a moment.  Pyrrha’s gaze glances across the scar above Blake’s hip before darting to the rack – quickly assessing whether it will be exposed.  Blake feels the ache in her hand to cover it; the pressure of the breath catching in her lungs.  But rebuilding isn’t seamless.  History leaves its marks, and she can’t help it if some of hers are more obvious than others.  If this is a bridge to cross, Blake would rather just put it behind her now.  She’s proud of how steady and level her voice is when she asks, “Will it need make-up?”

Just as Nora hadn’t said anything during measurements, Pyrrha doesn’t say anything now, except, “No, it should be fine.”  She moves towards the door with a smile.  “I’ll go check in with Weiss and Yang; see if they need help and let them know you’re starting.  Come get us whenever you’re ready.”

Nodding, Blake says, “Okay.”  The half-truth explanation stays tucked away.

“I can’t believe that about the location,” Nora says, holding up the first hanger.  “But they threw together a concept in, like, _a day_ , so I’m sure they’ll figure this out.”

“Yang didn’t seem too worried.”

Nora snorts, “She never is,” and gets down to it.

Blake doesn’t mind fittings, but she certainly doesn’t miss them.  She pulls on the pieces as Nora hands them to her –a crème colored blouse with gold collar and cuffs; tailored black pants; a black fitted waistcoat with one button and a severe hem that Blake actually really likes.  Then it’s a long while of standing perfectly still while Nora tugs at seams and tucks in pins.  She barely breathes through all her talking, and it makes it easier for Blake to adjust.  Nora is not shy, but she is friendly, and funny, and perfectly content to have a mostly one-sided conversation that barely even skims the surface.

When she starts singing Coco’s latest hit off-key under her breath, Blake even hums along.

 

\--

 

“I’m sorry,” Weiss begins, “but clearly I’m having a stroke, because I swear it sounded like you just said you wanted to hire _Velvet_.  Velvet, whose collages are so avant-garde they make improvisational jazz sound like top forty hits.”

“You approved a real assistant in the budget,” Yang replies, absently glancing at her vibrating scroll as if she isn’t giving Weiss a coronary before looking back up.  “I sent her the details and she accepted the offer.”

“You already _hired her?_ ” Weiss screeches.

Yang flinches.  “Bring it down out of dog whistle range.”

“The door is closed; you closed the door.”  She flaps a hand towards said door.

Yang's scroll vibrates again, and Weiss feels her soul begin to leave her body before Yang very pointedly tucks it into her pocket.  "Coco can wait.  Why are you freaking out about Velvet?"

“Because I cannot believe that you would hire her without consulting me.  As if I don’t have enough on my plate at the moment with all of _this_ ,” Weiss says, shaking her scroll in the air between them.  Scoffing, her eyes roll to the ceiling, frustration growing hot in her cheeks.  Of course, Weiss has to take care of everything herself.  She swipes her own scroll back to life, aggressively tapping out a message to Glynda.  “All of this- It’s utterly unacceptable.  I will fire Velvet; we will fire _ourselves_ and get the money to secure the location.  Whatever the offer is, _I will top it!_ ”

“You couldn’t top a cake, Weiss, chill out,” Yang says, and Weiss makes this undignified, indignant squealing sound, which – judging by the quirk in Yang’s brow – doesn’t help her case at all.  “So, okay, we lost the location,” Yang tries to reason, “but we gained a photographer’s assistant, so-”

Weiss slaps her hands down on the table.  “They won’t even look like clothes anymore, Yang!  Velvet will turn them into- into literal scraps of dust or a collage of _my_ face or she’ll slap a Venus flytrap over _Blake’s_ face.  It’ll be ruined!”

Yang sits forward in her chair, finger raised.  “Just because you have _zero_ artistic appreciation doesn’t make Velvet’s sculpture garden series any less awesome.”

“Everyone had plants for heads and vines for arms,” Weiss snaps.  “Do you really not understand my concern?”

Bracing her hands on the table, Yang stands.  Stares her down for a long minute – long enough to be uncomfortable; long enough that Weiss feels the irritation shift, clouding in an uncomfortable way.  “Relax,” Yang says slowly.  “Velvet’s art is _hers_ , but this is a team effort.  We will figure out the location shit, but you need to _relax_.  Look, maybe this one piece can’t be saved, but that doesn’t mean the whole thing is a lost cause.  We can salvage this.”

Weiss takes a very shaky breath, carefully setting her scroll aside, face-down.  “And how do you propose we do that?”

“Well,” uncertainty scrunches up her face, “I haven’t gotten that far yet, _but_.  You’re proud of your designs.  You’ve put a great team together.  You’re still on schedule, even with this little bump in the road.  We can figure it out.”

Rolling her eyes, Weiss lets out a little sigh.  All of that may be true, she _supposes_ , but it doesn’t lessen her concern at all.  This project is… Well, it’s everything.  If this fails, Weiss fails.  All the work she’s done – the work her mother did before her father ruined it all – will be for naught.  She’s pouring every last scrap of time and energy and funding she has into Dust.  If this doesn’t go _perfectly_ , she will literally have nothing left.

“Hey,” Yang grins at her, casually moving around the table to stand at her side, “even if it all goes to shit, at least you’ll always have _me_.”

“I’m doomed,” Weiss sighs, and Yang slings an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in for a hug.  Yang lifts her other hand, ruffling Weiss’ hair, and then bats right back when Weiss tries to bat her hand away.

Yang only relents when someone knocks at the door, Weiss promptly saying, “Yes?”

Salvation comes in the form of Pyrrha, smiling as she slips into the office.  “Everything all right in here?”

_Dog whistle_ , mouths Yang, grinning as she moves back to the other side of the table.

Ignoring the jab, Weiss smiles, trying to keep the strain from it since Pyrrha is not the one currently trying to send her to an early grave.  “Have they started the fittings?”

“They have,” she answers.  Then, expression softening, “Blake said we lost the location?”

And _that_ , thinks Weiss, is a proper reaction to her life falling apart – _sympathy_.  “We did.”

“But we’ll manage,” Yang cuts in.

Weiss’ lips purse.  “We’ll certainly try, at least.”

Pyrrha steps closer.  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Unless you have a secret inheritance stashed away in some secret underground bunker,” Weiss sighs, the smallest of smiles tugging at her lips, “no.  But thank you.”  Pyrrha nods, and Weiss looks to Yang, expectant.  “Well?”

“Well what?”

“You are the one who keeps insisting this can be turned around,” Weiss states.  “I am open to suggestions.”

“How many locations was Glynda originally looking at?” Pyrrha asks.

“She had six we were considering,” Weiss answers.

“But our first choice just got sold and second choice was already booked,” continues Yang.  “So, we’re down to four, one of which would need too much work to be ready for the shoot.”

“So, three,” Pyrrha says.  “Three to choose from.”

“None of which were even remotely near as good as the first.”  Weiss heaves out a sigh.  “I suppose Yang is right and all hope isn’t lost.  When this inevitably falls apart, Velvet can reassemble it into a rocket ship I might use to launch myself into the cold, vast void of space.”

“Velvet would- Oh, _shit_.”  Yang looks eagerly at Weiss, who is clearly, unhelpfully, not reading her mind.  “The sculpture garden.  _Velvet_.”

“I know it’s difficult for someone as stoic as you to tell,” Weiss slowly begins, “but I _was_ only joking about the rocket ship.”

“Yeah, it was almost even funny,” Yang chuckles, pulling her scroll out again.  “Just trust me, Weiss.”

“Famous last words.”  She folds her arms with a huffy roll of her eyes, but doesn’t protest further.

 

\--

 

“How does it look?” Blake asks, lifting her hands to the side as Weiss immediately begins circling, scrutinizing.

“How does it feel?” Yang counters, leaning against the doorway.  She folds her arms, deep V-neck loose and ripped jeans tight.  Her smile light, casual, hair falling wild around her shoulders.

Blake quickly looks away.  “It feels fine.”

“Arms up,” Weiss requests, and Blake reaches for the ceiling.  Weiss gives a little tug at where the waistcoat pulls across her ribs.  “To the side.”  Blake does.  “To the front.”  Blake does.  “Pivot.”  Which… Blake brings her arms in, twists her torso from side to side, assuming that’s what Weiss means.

“Now you put your right foot in, and take your right foot out,” Yang says, and Weiss shoots her a thoroughly deadpan glare.  Hands rising in surrender, Yang gives Blake a little nod.  “It looks great.  It fits good?  You can move?”

“I can even turn myself around,” Blake dryly answers, and Yang’s grin sparks electric.

“Stop distracting her,” Weiss snaps, completely ignoring Yang’s rolling eyes as she politely turns back to Blake.  “But can you?  Move?”

“Yeah, it feels great,” she assures her with a smile.

“Excellent.”  Weiss and Pyrrha close in with the make-up sketches, holding the papers up on either side of her face as they bat back and forth between the alpha-numerically coded choices.

“While they do that,” Nora moves for the door, and Yang slips inside to let her out, “bathroom break.”

Blake stands still, watching the way Yang looks everywhere in the room except at her.  It isn’t entirely odd, but it does give Blake a moment to try and make sense of her; of whatever the inexplicable pull is whenever she looks at her.  If it were only physical attraction, that would be one thing.  But looking at Yang feels like looking towards the sun.  Like shadows falling behind in the face of what’s ahead.  It’s trouble, Blake knows, to admit that.  Especially when it is such an inexplicable truth.

A knowing smile is only just beginning to curl at Yang’s lips – oh, she is fully aware of Blake’s heavy gaze; Blake has to wonder if the obvious avoidance was a lure of some sort – when Weiss steps directly in front of Blake, eyes narrowed.  “What are you staring at?”

“Me, obviously,” Yang’s voice is nothing but sarcastic bravado as she gives her hair an effortless little toss.  “My hair looks _so_ good today.”

“Not good enough for that smirk,” Blake lies, half-distracted by the look on Yang’s face and half-concerned by something close to quiet appraisal on Weiss’.

But then Weiss wheels around, and the delighted grin drops from Yang’s lips.  “Don’t think I’m above calling your little sister to tattle on you,” Weiss threatens, “because I am not.”

Looking genuinely regretful, Yang only lifts her hands again.  As Weiss slowly turns back around to consult with Pyrrha, Yang tosses Blake a small wink.  It isn’t flirtatious, but there is something conspiratorial about it.

Blake folds her arms, taking all that in.  Yang has a sister.  Yang has a Weiss, in whatever capacity that might mean.  Yang has friends, and people she cares about who clearly care about her.  More and more, Blake knows that Yang is nothing like _him_.  None of the people on this team are.  They all seem comfortable with each other; friends or friends-of-friends to some extent.  First the concept shoot, and now this...  Whatever histories they share, it's made the atmosphere light.  Not exactly unprofessional - Blake has seen her fair share of _that_ \- but comfortable.  The imbalance persists, but it feels less permanent.  Enough that she feels like maybe she doesn't need to be quite so guarded.  There are lines she still won't cross - won't abide someone else crossing - but maybe she, herself, can be a little lighter.

After all, there's still the whole campaign left.  She might as well try to enjoy some of her time on it.

When they come to a decision, a relieved sort of smile stretches at Weiss' lips.  Blake doesn't try to hold her matching one back.

 

\--

 

In her defense, Yang tries really hard to focus.  Like, really, _really_ hard.  But it’s the third make-up test of the day, and they’re all a little loose at their edges, and she has a perfect view because they didn’t bother to draw the curtain.  Blake sits on a stool, hands curled around the sleeves of her knitted sweater, smiling as she listens.  And Yang has no clue what the joke is, but Pyrrha’s head tips back with laughter as she talks, the make-up brush caught in her fingers, and Blake’s eyes are glinting, her lips curved.

So, Yang might be distracted.  A little.

“It would really only be one weekend?” Weiss asks, finger impatiently tapping against the back of the scroll at her ear.  Well, maybe only _some_ of them are loose.

Yang answers, “Maybe not even.  Coco’s still planning; it’s all up in the air.”

“And you still refuse to tell me what the project is,” she presses, and Yang doesn’t bother to respond.  Weiss mistakes her silence for something else, snapping her fingers in front of Yang’s face with a quiet huff.  “I swear, Yang, if you were any gayer, they’d rename the month of June after you.”  She turns to head for the office, muttering into her scroll, “No, Jaune, the month of _June_ ; why would we start calling you Yang?”

The insult was weak, but that call sounds like a _train wreck_ and Weiss is stressed enough over trouble with the location, so Yang lets it lie.  Turns her attention back to adjusting the key light stand, and adamantly not on the little prep area next to the dark room and storage closet.  Once the light is set, Yang moves in front of the camera, stepping onto the small strip of tape on the floor, and takes hold of the light meter hanging around her neck.  Double-checks the readings for each light and calls out to Weiss, “We really should have done this tomorrow once it stops raining.  It would be better with natural light.”

All Weiss shouts back is, “The schedule, Yang!”  And then she’s muttering again into her scroll, back turned to the studio.  Shit, she needs to get drunk or laid or a massage or _something_ , Yang thinks.  They might actually kill each other before this whole thing is done.

“All set,” Pyrrha announces as they emerge, walking over.

This look is a little more unruly than the first two; the subtle waves to Blake’s hair more tousled, her eyes less structured and smokier – good for the outfit it’ll be paired with.  Blake steps up to her mark, fingers laced in front of her, and crosses her feet.  “Ready.”

“Great.”  Yang moves back behind the camera, Pyrrha stepping to her side to duck her head closer to the camera screen.  “Looks good?”

“It looks perfect,” she smiles.  “You’re certain I can get prints, too?  That won’t be any trouble?”

“Nah, not at all.”  Yang shifts closer to the camera and adjusts the feed connecting it to her computer so she doesn’t step on it.  Tucking her eye against the viewfinder, fingers poised on the focus ring, she chuckles, “This job is turning into nothing but portfolio building.”

“The price of being young professionals,” Pyrrha agrees.

Patience hanging by the barest of threads, Weiss loudly chimes in, “Whenever you’re ready!”

She’s probably too distracted to pay attention to them, so Yang asks, “Hey, who wants to chip in and buy Weiss a relaxing day at the spa?”  Because suggesting they buy her a vibrator would definitely be inappropriate; that can be a joke gift for her birthday or something.

Blake raises her eyebrows, murmuring, “Maybe a whole weekend, if we can swing it.”

Laughing, Yang takes the first shot, and they work in silence for a few minutes.  Blake effortlessly hits her angles; she doesn’t even have to try to find the light, it just finds her.  All Yang has to do is refocus and press the button.

“So, a junkyard?” Blake tips her chin down.  “We’re really leaning in with this whole _from the ruins_ aspect.”

“Fashion isn’t known for subtlety,” Yang chuckles, and Blake’s lips twitch before she schools her expression.  “But it’s not actually a junkyard.  Well, I guess it’s kind of _become_ one, but it used to be a private botanical garden before they lost funding.  Now college kids just party there.”

“It certainly sounds like there’s potential in the location,” Pyrrha adds.  “I can’t wait to see the pictures Jaune and your assistant come back with.”

“Yeah, Velvet did a shoot there before and it came out really cool,” Yang says.  “Although, she kind of did it on the fly; we’re not sure who technically owns the property…?”  It should be fine.  Glynda seems competent enough to handle permits or permissions or whatever.

The conversation drifts off until Weiss yells a sharp, “What do you mean _cesspool?_ ” into her scroll.

Pyrrha hums quietly.  “Maybe not a spa day, but we _should_ do a night out.  I think we could all use a nice dinner together to unwind.  Or maybe drinks?”

“I’d be game for it,” Yang agrees.  Then, teasing, “Blake, give me some smolder?”

“Drinks with you all sounds dangerous,” she says, staring down the lens.  It’s not a smolder, but there is a glint in her eyes that has Yang grinning.

“Worried we might get too rowdy?”

Blake rolls her eyes, gaze catching and sticking to the ceiling as the shutter snaps.  “Worried I’ll lose what respect I have for you all if you do.”

“I’m surprised you have any at all,” Yang mumbles, grinning at the way Blake purses her lips to keep from laughing.

Pyrrha lightly chuckles, “So, we don’t let Nora pick a karaoke bar, then.”

“We _so_ need to do karaoke.”  Yang pulls away from the camera.  It’s the best idea anyone has ever had.  “You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Drunk-Weiss do immaculate operatic runs to death metal.”

“I do recall that particular…” Pyrrha mulls it over for way too long before deciding on, “ _talent_.”

“There’s no way.”  Blake glances off towards the office before looking back with a tilted smile.  As if she doesn’t believe it; as if she can’t wait to see it.  Relaxed and at ease, this is a side to Blake that Yang definitely doesn’t mind seeing.

“Oh, yeah,” Yang nods, before carelessly shrugging, “and I’m not half-bad myself, if you _really_ want a show.  I always start with a classic; helps set the energy for the night.”

At that, Blake lets out a disappointed sigh, crumpling with faux-apology.  “Oh, no, what a shame, I already have plans.  Looks like I’ll have to miss it.”

Never mind that they haven’t decided when – or even _if_ – this is happening, Yang offers, “You could show up late.  I guess just this once I can do an encore, for your benefit.”

“How generous of you,” Blake’s voice lilts, her head tipping, and Yang’s heart gives a little kick in her chest.  “Maybe I can find a few minutes to watch Weiss perform.  Rumor is I haven’t lived until I’ve seen _that_.”

Yang doesn’t want to assume, but… She’s pretty sure.  For a moment – one glorious, lingering moment – Blake holds her gaze with a little smirk on her face, and nothing else really exists except for the blood rush Yang gets off the golden glint in her eyes.  But then Blake’s gaze shifts somewhere behind Yang, tracking movement, and she pulls back into herself.  Glancing over her shoulder, Yang sees Pyrrha walking into the office; hears Weiss on her scroll.

Right, the whole world exists.

Swallowing thickly, Blake turns to one side for some profile shots, effectively cutting off any potential eye contact, through the camera or not.  Taking the cue, Yang gets back to work.  And if Blake seems a little tenser, a little more closed off, neither Pyrrha nor Weiss says anything.  It’s only a test; Blake’s expression doesn’t matter so much.  Especially when she turns her back entirely to the camera to display the hair design.

Whatever line Blake has drawn – keeps tracing over – exists for a reason.  If she wants to joke, Yang can joke.  If she wants to back off, Yang will back off.  She swallows down her own sense of disappointment, because she has no right to feel it anyway.

When it’s all done, all four of them pack up the gear to make quicker work of it, and Blake is the first to leave.  Pyrrha follows shortly after, and Weiss pulls up the rear, stepping out from the office area, rambling about Jaune and the location and the inevitability of her impending failure and demise.

"Honestly," Weiss huffs, "I'm beginning to think perhaps it was too much, too soon.  A full line, launching so soon after-"  Yang steps in front of her, gently, but insistently, pressing her hands on either side of Weiss’ face.  Immediately, the rambling dies in her throat, Weiss’ wide eyes frantically darting between Yang’s eyes and mouth as if she is genuinely terrified that some shenanigans are about to ensue.  “What are you doing?”

“No matter how much it might feel like it will,” Yang slowly says, “the world never actually ends.  The sun will _always_ rise on a new day, but you have to make the choice to believe that there’s something good waiting in it.”

Weiss’ expression flits from terror to confusion to a slow, steady sort of unraveling.  It hurts, in an odd way, for Yang to have to say those words.  To watch her best friend have to hear them.

“You told me that once and it’s still true,” she continues.  “We save what we can, we carry what we have to, but we keep moving forward.  Together.  All of us are all in, working to build something good _together_ , and you need to _breathe_ , Weiss.”

It takes a long moment, but then Weiss takes a shaky breath, licking her lips and swallowing several false starts before she finds her voice.  “If this-” She pauses.  Presses her lips into a thin line, words tucked safe behind her teeth.  For a moment, it seems like she won’t say more.  For a fleeting moment, Yang actually worries.  But then, all at once, Weiss _breaks_.  As much as she’s capable of, at least, voice weak and wet-sounding as she fights to keep her composure.  “I honestly don’t know what I’d do.  What I could possibly…”

“ _If_ – and that’s a big if,” Yang smiles before continuing, “if it comes to that, you have a whole group of friends ready and willing to save all the good we can and help you carry what’s heavy.”

She only stares, and then, all at once, Weiss surges forward, arms wrapping around Yang’s middle, clinging tight, and it isn’t entirely unexpected.  Yang pulls her close, lifting a hand to give the top of her head a soft pat.  “I’ll even buy you a dog bed to sleep on my floor while we all figure it out.”

“I hate you so much,” Weiss mutters into her shoulder, clinging even tighter.

 

\--

 

It ends up being a dinner, which Blake runs a little late for because the rideshare took longer than expected to show up.  She considered not going at all, but she’ll be working pretty closely with this team.  She likes them, and it’s a good way to network; help strengthen those relationships for once the job is over.  So, Blake slips into the restaurant, already a touch nervous over the time, and approaches the podium with a smile and a quiet, “Excuse me?  Hi, I’m here for a reservation for Nikos.”

The host smiles, pulling a menu out.  “Yes, they’ve got a private table in the back.  If you’ll follow me?”

“Thank you.”  Blake follows him through the restaurant, unbuttoning her coat.  It’s a quiet place, soft lighting and partial walls for privacy, and the people seated at booths and tables seem to be a mix of date nights and business meetings; nice, without being too romantic.  Near the back, the host opens a set of glass-paned doors, waving her through to a private room.

As she steps inside, one big, round table packed with mostly familiar faces greets her with an excited chorus of, “Blake!”

Which has a surprised smile pulling at her lips.  “Hi?”

Everyone starts shifting around, scooting their chairs and moving their glasses to make room for her.  Unnecessarily, seeing as there’s an empty chair tucked between Pyrrha and someone Blake doesn’t know, but the intention is nice.  Unexpected, but really, really… _sweet_.

The host leads her over, and Blake sits down as Pyrrha greets with a warm smile and a sincere, “I’m so glad you made it.  We were getting worried; was there traffic?”

“My ride was late,” Blake smiles.  She takes the menu with a _Thanks_ when the host offers it before slipping away.

“Oh, Blake,” Pyrrha leans forward to look across her, “this is Velvet.  Yang’s assistant.”

“Hi,” Velvet gives her a little wave, which Blake returns with a smile.  “She thought this would be a good way for me to meet the rest of the team.”

On Velvet’s other side, Yang leans forward, elbow propped on the table.  “Yeah, let everybody kind of get to know each other, get comfortable.”  She glances towards Blake’s menu with a casual, “Weiss and I are paying, as a thanks for being so patient during _someone’s_ little meltdown, so get whatever you want.”

Weiss pushes Yang’s elbow off the table with a polite smile directed at Blake.  “I’m sorry for any unprofessional behavior the other day.  I know I can be a bit _challenging_ , but-”

“That’s the word you’re going with?” Yang mutters out the side of her mouth.

“-but this is very much our way of saying thank you for the team’s hard work,” Weiss continues, paying the interruption no mind.  Well, mostly.  She leans close to Yang, not nearly as quiet as she likely means to be, hissing, “I apologized to everyone; let it die already.”

A grin splashes across Yang’s face, and Blake smiles between them.  “Thank you, for dinner.”  They both nod, and the conversations carry on.

Blake tries to trace the different threads – six voices; three conversations; wholly untraceable – but Velvet seems to be just as content to listen, observe, a little on the outskirts.  When Blake catches her eye, they share a smile, and Blake’s glad that she isn’t the only one with tenuous connections to this group.

“So, do you do a lot of fashion shoots?” Blake asks her.

Sipping her water, Velvet shakes her head.  “No, this will be the first one.  But it sounded interesting, and Yang said I could take as many pictures as I wanted during any downtime, so I’m looking forward to it.”

“Oh, do you do portraits?  Or candid, documentary kind of stuff?”

Weiss chokes on her wine, waving off the concerned looks the table shoots her with a gasp of, “ _I’m fine_.”

“I do a lot of collage work,” Velvet explains, turning back.  “Primarily photography, but I dabble in painting, as well.  I really enjoy taking things that exist and recreating them out of other things, or turning them into other things.”

“Really?” Blake finds herself genuinely interested, and Velvet hums softly.  The conversation comes easy from there – her style sounds experimental, but intriguing – and when she starts talking about influences, other artists she admires, there’s a surprising amount they have in common.  “I loved that book,” Blake smiles when talk turns to literature.  “The first time I was ever in front of a camera, it was for a project based off that story.  Two souls fighting for control of a single body.”

Velvet’s brows rise with curiosity.  “That sounds fascinating.  Who did you work with on it?”

“Well, my-” Blake halts, torn.  There are a lot of words she can use to describe Ilia, _him_ , that entire time in her life.  None of them feel right, and the closest ones feel too heavy for dinner conversation.  She settles for something easy.  “A friend in high school was taking a summer course at the local college.  They were doing a project to experiment with multiple exposures.”

“That’s a great way to capture the struggle in that story,” Velvet comments, leaning back in her chair.  As she does, Blake notices Yang listening.

Or, rather, making a very concerted effort not to hear what she’s clearly overhearing.  A furrow in her brow, Yang is overly-focused on whatever Nora is saying to Weiss, her eyes bouncing between the two of them, small hums rising in her throat as if she can drown out a conversation she feels she doesn’t have a right to listen to that way.  And either Yang notices Blake’s sudden silence, or feels Blake’s eyes on her, because she turns her head the slightest bit, curious.

Blake tears her eyes away.  “I haven’t even looked at my menu yet.”

With a soft laugh, Velvet picks her own up from the table.  “Me neither.”

The conversations carry on.  And the group seems daunting at a glance – they’re so comfortable with each other; so many strings of shared history – but it doesn’t feel insurmountable.  They’re warm, and welcoming, and when Pyrrha turns to Blake to join in the conversation with Velvet, it feels genuine.

The waiter comes to take their orders, and in the lull that lingers in his wake, Blake feels bold enough to say, “So, Pyrrha mentioned she met Nora and Weiss during college, but…?” She trails off, looking towards Ren and Jaune.  Her gaze slides almost instinctively to Yang, as well, who’s still looking at her curiously.

It’s Nora who answers.  “Well, I’ve known Ren since we were kids.  Same schools and classes almost our whole lives.”

“And I met Jaune on a job,” Ren adds, glancing towards him.

Jaune nods.  “Yeah, that was back when I thought I wanted to do lighting.  But I like production way better.  You know, being the man with the plan; keeping things organized; putting out fires.”

“Starting them, in some cases.”  Weiss rolls her eyes to the ceiling, but the corner of her mouth quirks with what might be a mild sense of resignation.  As if Jaune and disaster are a pairing that must be tolerated.

“Hey, that was a malfunctioning generator, and we got it fixed in, like, an hour,” Jaune defends.  “We’re totally fire-free, ready for location set-up as soon as the permits clear.”

“How did I not hear about _that?_ ” Nora slaps her hands flat on the table to stare at him.

The whole night beautifully devolves from there, and Blake _likes_ them.  Sure, this is complicated by work, but the campaign won’t last forever.  It feels like more than just networking anyway; more than a casual business dinner.  She has Sun, and Neptune to an extent, but she’s missed having _friends_.  This group isn’t quite that yet, but as the night goes on, Blake thinks maybe they _could_ be.  Someday.

When Velvet stands to go to the restroom, Blake is aware of the empty seat.  Yang on the other side of it, smiling in that way she does, like she has the sun in her heart and can’t contain it, so she just lets it spill out of her, warm and bright.  Weiss smacks Yang’s shoulder, leaning close to whisper something that has Yang indulgently rolling her eyes.  Weiss pulls away, frowning, and Yang just reaches for her glass.

“Relax, Weiss; this whole night is about unwinding,” she says, smiling curling wider.  “The food is great.  The company is great, because I’m in it.  And here we are, unwound.”

Weiss scoffs, “Your modesty is unwound.”

And maybe it’s the warmth of the group, or the warmth in Yang’s eyes, but Blake just hums, looking curiously to Weiss.  “Did she have enough to begin with for it to unwind?”

Weiss meets her gaze, a strangely complicated emotion on her face, but Yang’s absolute delight is clear enough as she gasps, “ _Traitor!_ ”

“Oh, it’s true and you know it,” Weiss curtly comments.  “You’ll never want for confidence, Yang, or have you suddenly discovered the virtue of humility?”

Yang grins wider, expectant, twisting around to look at her.  “I know the virtue of-”

“Don’t you dare,” Weiss interrupts with a long-suffering sigh.  “I cannot hear you make a pun of my last name; my patience is already unwound.”

With that, she turns to Nora for distraction, and Yang tosses Blake a smirk and a quiet, “Well, at least something of her is, right?  And we didn’t even have to pay for a spa.”

At times, Yang toes that line between friendly and flirtatious with abandon, but she seems to know when to pull back; hasn’t chased after if Blake blinks first.  The way Blake keeps slipping is trouble, but the fact that she keeps wanting to is terrifying.  So, Blake smiles, and blinks first.  Yang goes back to hassling Weiss like it’s her default state of existence, and Blake sips her champagne.

When Velvet returns, somehow the two of them end up talking across the table with Ren about shadow plays.  Not long after, the whole table gets roped in.  And as all eight of them share in one thread of conversation, Blake can’t help but think that if this is rebuilding, she just might be able to do it.

 

\--

 

At the end of the night, they all linger on the sidewalk outside.  Saying their goodbyes and indulging in the company just a bit longer.  It isn’t late, but the cold takes its toll quick enough.  Velvet is the first to break away, smiling over her shoulder when Yang says, “Let me know you get home okay.”

Then Nora climbs onto Jaune’s back, and he gallops off down the sidewalk, Pyrrha and Ren hurrying to follow and keep them out of trouble.  Weiss sighs out a desperate little, “Ren?” and he and Pyrrha both flash reassuring smiles over their shoulders.

“And then there were three,” Yang sighs.  “I’m a little bummed, actually.  Tonight was fun.”

“Yes, well, all things must end.”  Weiss digs her keys out of her purse, then turns to Blake with a soft smile.  “Would you like a ride home, or did you already call someone?”

Yang’s eyes narrow.  She knows Weiss wouldn’t go there – Weiss definitely doesn’t know Blake well enough to tell her outright to _keep her pants on_ – but she wouldn’t put it past her to try for some subtle observation under the guise of getting to know Blake better.  And as subtle as Weiss believes herself to be, Blake is observant enough to see through it if she tries.  Shit, a rock is probably observant enough to see through it.

“I’m meeting Sun at a bookstore nearby,” Blake answers.  “Thank you, though, for the offer.”

“Of course,” Weiss says, and even if her smile doesn’t falter, disappointment creeps into her eyes.  But it isn’t the kind Yang was expecting.  It’s more like the disappointment when Yang says she’s leaving for a few weeks on a job, or when they have their breakfast bonanzas the last morning of Ruby’s school breaks.  Not exactly like that, of course, but a smaller version, maybe.  The potential is there.

“Look at that,” Yang teases, and Weiss’ expression falls.  “Is Weiss Schnee actually having fun?”

Deadpan, Weiss drawls, “Must you always?”

“Tonight was nice,” Blake chuckles softly.  Then, “Thank you both, for-”

“No, no,” Weiss lifts a finger to gently cut her off.  “Let us not sour this warmth in my chest with obligatory proprieties.  We’re all a team, after all, and tonight was…”  She takes a deep breath, and even if she doesn’t smile, Yang hears the fondness in her voice when she sighs, “very nice.”

“I’m so proud,” Yang beams, slinging an arm around her shoulders to pull her in for a hug.  “One of these days we’ll even get a real laugh out of you.”

Weiss lifts a hand to the middle of her back to return the hug.  “Ruby's arriving in a matter of days, and she _will_ help me dispose of your body.”

Yang barks out a laugh.  “In _what_ world?”

They separate, and Weiss motions to them both.  “Let me know once you’re home, or let someone else on the team know.  It’s too late in the project to hire replacements, so no one is allowed to die.”

“Sure, Weiss,” Yang indulgently says, “that’s the reason; not because you secretly care or anything.  You know you’d throw yourself into a pit of lava to save me.”

“To escape you, more like.”  Huffing, and poorly fighting off a smile, Weiss looks between them, gaze lingering on Yang in a very pointed way as she says, “Have a good night.”

It’s probably a good idea.  Leaving.

“Yeah,” Yang agrees.  Then, to Blake, “Have a good night, and send someone a message once you’re home.”

“You, too,” Blake smiles at them both.

There’s a satisfaction in the way Weiss lifts her chin and heads off down the sidewalk, as if she’s put a stop to something.  Yang stares at her back for a moment, then gives Blake a little smile, which she returns, and they both step away.

…In the same direction.

For several paces, they try to pretend like they aren’t walking along the sidewalk together.  And it’s fine.  Not awkward at all.  Yang grins, looking from the corner of her eye to see a smile on Blake’s face.  And then they’re both laughing, although Yang’s is louder.  Her chuckle tapering off, Blake glances over her shoulder, and Yang follows her gaze to find Weiss getting into her car at the other end of the street.  “That was…” Blake looks at Yang, then straight ahead.  “Unexpected.”

“It is very rare, but that’s Weiss in a nutshell,” Yang sighs.  “She doesn’t like to let it show, but she actually cares a lot.  Weiss is kind of one of the best friends you could ever hope for.”

The slightest hint of a smile on her lips, Blake takes a moment before saying, “You sound like you admire her.”

“I do,” she easily admits, then slows her steps as she considers.  It’s a fine line to tread, because so much of Weiss’ private life has been made public over the years.  Some of it she honestly doesn’t give a shit about, but some of it she’s tried to claw back possession of, tooth and nail.  Yang only says, “I admire that she lets herself care – _love_ as deeply as she does.  It takes her a while to warm up to someone, but once she does, she’ll do _anything_ for them.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend like that.”  Blake’s chuckle rings hollow.

“I think you do now,” grins Yang.  “A whole table full of them, even.”

And Blake just blinks, surprised.  She draws to a stop, and so Yang does, too.  Slowly, Blake’s expression shifts with this soft curiosity, eyes molten like the sun cracked open and spilled out in a haze, and something is there.  Something is happening.

Yang likes to think she’s pretty good at reading people; can keep herself tethered enough to see the way that other people begin to drift.  But wherever Blake is going, Yang doesn’t have a damn clue.  Because Blake looks at her like _that_ – like she’s seen her inside and out a thousand lifetimes before and can trace every branching vein under skin from memory; not even all that surprised by being able to do so – and Yang swears she can feel herself unraveling like stars uncrossing in the night sky overhead.

But then Blake blinks, tearing her gaze away, and the moment breaks.  She folds her arms over her stomach with a quiet, “I should probably get going.”  And it sounds as shaky and affected as Yang feels.

“Yeah,” she agrees, stepping closer to the curb where her motorcycle is parked.  “Night, Blake.”

Blake just hums, soft and cute, arms unwinding and hands tucking into the pockets of her coat as she steps away.  “Night, Yang.”

Yang unlocks her helmet from the back of her bike.  As she tugs it on, slinging a leg over the seat, she looks up the sidewalk.  Walking away, Blake doesn’t glance back.  Yang watches anyway, and just when she’s about to sigh and call it a night, Blake looks over her shoulder.  The smallest smile tilts across her lips when their eyes meet, and Yang’s heart ignites in her chest, spinning starlight and sunrises and something she’s never really felt before between her ribs.

Swallowing thickly, Yang blinks first.


End file.
